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AIRS OF PALESTINE, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS 










. 






AIRS OF PALESTINE, 



AND 



OTHER POEMS, 



JOHN PIERPONT. 



BOSTON: 

JAMES MUNROE AND COMPANY. 

LONDON : 

JOHN GREEN, 121 NEWGATE STREET. 

MDCCCXL. 



.T1 Ko 



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Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1840, by 

John Pierpont, 

in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 



CAMBRIDGE: 
POLSOM, WELLS, AND THURSTON. 



PREFACE 



Poetry is not my vocation. The pieces that 
make up this volume will be seen, should they 
be read, to be mostly occasional, — the wares of 
a verse- wright, made " to order." I pray the 
critics to consider this ; and, if there is that in 
them which says that something must be 

" hawked at, and killed," 

I entreat them to pounce upon some higher 
quarry. 

A few of these pieces, I confess, are sponta- 
neous. They were written con amore. Nay, I 
could not but write them. I felt that necessity 
was laid upon me, and that woe were me, if I 
wrote them not. These are fair game. I turn 
them out, to the young editors especially, as 
fit subjects for them to flesh their dissecting 
knives upon. I wrote these pieces, which are 



yi PREFACE. 

fault-finders themselves, expecting that they 
would meet with fault-finders, even among my 
friends. Should they give offence to them, I 
shall be sorry ; — sorry, not that the pieces are 
written, but that my friends are offended by 
them. I will try to propitiate such friends, in 
advance, by assuring them, that though they may 
grieve, and wish that I had been more prudent 
than to write the pieces that touch thus upon 
human liberty, and upon the outrageous wrongs 
that, in these our days, and in this our land, it 
has suffered, — their grandchildren will thank 
me, and may be the freer men for them. This 
is all that I have to say about them. 

If poetry is always fiction, there is no po- 
etry in this book. It gives a true, though an 
all too feeble expression of the author's feel- 
ings and faith, — of his love of right, freedom, 
and man, and of his correspondent and most 
hearty hatred of every thing that is at war 
with them ; and of his faith in the providence 
and gracious promises of God. Nay, the book 
is published as an expression of his faith in man; 
his faith that every line, written to rebuke high- 



PREFACE. Vii 

handed or under-handed wrong, or to keep 
alive the fires of civil and religious liberty, — 
written for solace in affliction, for support un- 
der trial, or as an expression, or for the excite- 
ment, of Christian patriotism or devotion ; or 
even with no higher aim than to throw a little 
sunshine into the chamber of the spirit, while it 
is going through some of the wearisome passages 
of life's history, — will be received as a proof of 
the writer's interest in the welfare of his fellow 
men, of his desire to serve them, and consequent- 
ly of his claim upon them for a charitable judg- 
ment, at least, if not even for a respectful and 
grateful remembrance. 

J. P. 
Boston, September 1st, 1840. 



CONTENTS. 



Page 
AIRS OF PALESTINE, 1 

Notes, 31 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

Moslem Worship, .... ... 49 

" Passing Away." — A Dream, 62 

To my Grave, 65 

A Sunday Night at Sea, 73 

Ruins at Psestum, 81 

A Birthday in Scio, . . ... . . .91 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
I. Hymns for the Lord's Supper and Christmas, 101 

II. Hymns for Ordination and Installation. 

1. Ordination of William Ware, . . . .117 

2. Ordination of John P. B. Storer, . . . .118 

3. Written for the same Occasion, .... 119 



x CONTENTS. 

4. Ordination of Charles C. Sewall, . . .120 

5. Ordination of George W. Burnap, . . .121 

6. Installation of Mellish Irving Motte, . . .123 

7. Ordination of William Barry, . • • .124 

8. Installation of Andrew Bigelow, . . . .125 

9. Ordination of John T. Sargent, .... 127 

10. Ordination of Frederick W. Holland, . . .128 

11. Ordination of Theodore H. Dorr, ... 129 

III. Hymns for Dedication. 

1. Opening of the Independent Congregational Church 

in Barton Square, Salem, 135 

2. Dedication of the South Congregational Church in 

Boston, I 36 

3. Dedication of the New Stone Congregational Church 

in Quincy, 137 

4. Dedication of the First Congregational Church in 

Cincinnati, Ohio, • • 139 

5. Consecration of the Cemetery at Mount Auburn, 142 

6. Dedication of the Seaman's Bethel, under the Direc- 

tion of the Boston Port Society, . . • .143 

7. Dedication of the new Congregational Church in 

Plymouth, 145 

8. Opening of the Mariner's House in Ann Street, 

Boston, 146 

9. Dedication of the Chardon Street Chapel, in Boston, 148 

10. Laying the Corner Stone of the Suffolk "Street 

Chapel, in Boston, 149 

11. Dedication of the Lyceum Hall in Dorchester, . 151 

IV. Hymns and Odes for Charity Occasions. 

1. Anniversary of the Boston Female Orphan Asylum, 155 

2. Anniversary of the Howard Benevolent Society in 

Boston, 156 



CONTENTS. Xi 

3. Centennial Anniversary of the Charitable Irish So- 

ciety in Boston, . ...... 158 

4. Anniversary of the Fatherless and Widows Society 

in Boston, 159 

5. Anniversary of the Female Samaritan Society in 

Boston, 161 

6. Fair of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief 

of Widows and Orphans, in Boston, . . 162 

7. Jubilee of Sunday Schools, celebrated by the Boston 

Sunday School Society, 164 

8. Anniversary of the Howard Sunday School in Bos- 

ton, 165 

9. Fifth Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts 

Charitable Mechanics' Association, . . . 168 

10. Written for the same Occasion, .... 169 

11. Seventh Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts 

Charitable Mechanics' Association, . . . 170 

12. First Fair and Exhibition of the Massachusetts Char- 

itable Mechanics' Association, .... 174 

V. Hymns and Odes for Temperance Occasions. 

1. Anniversary of the Massachusetts Society for the 

Suppression of Intemperance, in Boston, . . 179 

2. License Laws, 181 

3. Simultaneous Temperance Meeting, in the Old South 

Church in Boston, 184 

4. Simultaneous Temperance Meeting, at the Odeon in 

Boston, ........ 186 

5. Opening of the Marlborough Hotel, as a Temperance 

House, 187 

6. Ninth Anniversary of the New York State Temper- 

ance Society, in Albany, .... 190 

7. Juvenile Celebration of the Simultaneous Meeting 

of the Friends of Temperance throughout the 
World, at the Odeon in Boston, . . . .192 



Xll CONTENTS. 

8. Celebration of National Independence on Temper- 

ance Principles, in Fanueil Hall, Bostdn, . 194 

9. Written for the same Occasion, . . . 195 

10. A Song written for the same Occasion, . .198 

11. Temperance Meeting in South Boston, . . 201 

12. Morning Hymn for Family Worship, . . . 202 

13. Evening Hymn for Family Worship, . . 203 

14. The Drunkard's Funeral, 205 

VI. Funereal Pieces. 

1. The Exile at Rest, 215 

2. Obsequies of Dr. Gaspard Spurzheim, . 216 

3. Lines on the Death of Mrs. F H , . 218 

4. Her Chosen Spot, 220 

5. Lydia, - . 222 

0. Funeral Service in Commemoration of the Life and 

Character of Charles Follen, .... 224 

7. A Sister's Thoughts over a Brother's Grave . 225 

8. My Father, Mother, Brothers, Sisters, . . . 227 

VII. Hymns and Odes for Anniversary, Centen- 

nial, AND OTHER CELEBRATIONS. 

1. Celebration of Washington's Birthday, in Newbury- 

port, 235 

2. Washington Benevolent Society's Celebration, in 

Boston, 237 

3. Celebration of American Independence, in Boston, 239 

4. Anniversary of the Pilgrim Society, at Plymouth, 240 

5. Laying of the Corner Stone of the Bunker Hill 

Monument, 242 

G. Warren's Address to the American Soldiers, . 243 

7. Charlestovvn Centennial Celebration, . . 244 

8. Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of 

Boston 246 



CONTENTS. Xili 

9. Celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the 

Birthday of George Washington, . . . 248 

10. Celebration of the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Bat- 

tle of Lexington, 250 

11. Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of 

Dedham, 251 

VIII. Patriotic and Political Pieces. 

1. The Portrait, 255 

2. News-Carrier's Address, 280 

3. A Word from a Petitioner, .... 290 

4. The Tocsin, 294 

5. The Gag, 299 

6. The Chain, 303 

7. The Fugitive Slave's Apostrophe to the North Star, 305 

8. Economy of Slavery, 308 

IX. Gleanings. 

1. To a Friend, 3U 

2. Petition from a Lazaretto, 3] 7 

3. For the Album of Miss E. L. B , ... 322 

4. For the Album of Miss Caroline C , . . 324 

5. For the Album of Miss Octavia W , . . 325 

6. For the Album of Miss Mary G. M , . . 326 

7. Sunday Morning at Cambridge, . . . 327 

8. Morning Prayer for a Child, .... 329 

9. Evening Prayer for a Child, .... 329 
10. Jerusalem, 330 



AIRS OF PALESTINE 



AIRS OF PALESTINE 



Summer's dun cloud comes thundering up, and holds 
The rushing tempest in its gathering folds ; 
The darkened world beneath it holds its breath, 
And, from its bosom, comes the voice of Death, 
Solemn and deep : — yet on that cloud we gaze 
With calm delight, when on its border blaze 
The golden splendors of the closing day : 
These tell us, that the cloud will pass away 
Harmless, and leave behind it purer air 
For all that breathe, and the fair world more fair. 
So, when one language bound the human race, 
On Shinar's plain, round Babel's mighty base, 
Gloomily rose the minister of wrath ; 
Dark was his frown, destructive was his path ; 
That tower was blasted by the touch of Heaven ; 
That bond was burst, — that race asunder driven : 
Yet, round the Avenger's brow, that frowned above, 
Played Mercy's beams, — the lambent light of Love. 
All was not lost, though busy Discord flung 
Repulsive accents from each jarring tongue ; 



4 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

All was not lost; for Love one tie had twined, 
And Mercy dropped it, to connect mankind : 
One tie, whose airy filaments invest, 
Like Beauty's zone, the calm or stormy breast ; 
Wake that to action, rule of this the strife, 
And, through the mazy labyrinths of life, 
Supply a faithful clue, to lead the lone 
And weary wanderer to his Father's throne. 

That tie is Music. How supreme her sway ! 
How lovely is the Power that all obey ! 
Dumb matter trembles at her thrilling shock ; 
Her voice is echoed by the desert rock ; 
For her, the asp withholds the sting of death, 
And bares his fangs but to inhale her breath ; 
The royal lion leaves his desert lair, 
And, crouching, listens when she treads the air ; 
And man, by wilder impulse driven to ill, 
Is tamed, and led by this Enchantress still. 
Who ne'er has felt her hand assuasive steal 
Along his heart, — that heart will never feel. 
'T is hers to chain the passions, soothe the soul, 
To snatch the dagger, and to dash the bowl, 
From Murder's hand ; to smooth the couch of Care, 
Extract the thorns, and scatter roses there ; 
Of Pain's hot brow to still the bounding throb, 
Despair's long sigh, and Grief's convulsive sob. 
How vast her empire ! Turn through earth, through air, 
Your aching eye, you find her subjects there ; 
Nor is the throne of heaven above her spell, 
Nor yet beneath it is the host of hell. 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 5 

To her, Religion owes her holiest flame : 
Her eye looks heavenward, for from heaven she came. 
And when Religion's mild and genial ray- 
Around the frozen heart begins to play, 
Music's soft breath falls on the quivering light ; 
The fire is kindled, and the flame is bright ; 
And that cold mass, by either power assailed, 
Is warmed, is melted, and to heaven exhaled. 

Here let us pause : — the opening prospect view : — 
How fresh this mountain air! — how soft the blue, 
That throws its mantle o'er the lengthening scene ! 
Those waving groves, — those vales of living green, — 
Those yellow fields, — that lake's cerulean face, 
That meets, with curling smiles, the cool embrace 
Of roaring torrents, lulled by her to rest ; — 
That white cloud, melting on the mountain's breast : 
How the wide landscape laughs upon the sky ! 
How rich the light that gives it to the eye ! 

Where lies our path ? — though many a vista call, 
We may admire, but cannot tread them all. 
Where lies our path ? — a poet, and inquire 
What hills, what vales, what streams become the lyre ? 
See, there Parnassus lifts his head of snow ; 
See at his foot the cool Cephissus flow ; 
There Ossa rises ; there Olympus towers ; 
Between them, Tempe breathes in beds of flowers, 
For ever verdant ; and there Peneus glides 
Through laurels, whispering on his shady sides. 



6 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Your theme is Music : — Yonder rolls the wave, 
Where dolphins snatched Arion from his grave, 
Enchanted by his lyre : — Cithaeron's shade 
Is yonder seen, where first Amphion played 
Those potent airs, that, from the yielding earth, 
Charmed stones around him, and gave cities birth. 
And fast by Hsemus, Thracian Hebrus creeps 
O'er golden sands, and still for Orpheus weeps, 
Whose gory head, borne by the stream along, 
Was still melodious, and expired in song. 
There Nereids sing, and Triton winds his shell ; 
There be thy path, — for there the Muses dwell. 

No, no, — a lonelier, lovelier path be mine : 
Greece and her charms I leave, for Palestine. 
There, purer streams through happier valleys flow, 
And sweeter flowers on holier mountains blow. 
I love to breathe where Gilead sheds her balm ; 
I love to walk on Jordan's banks of palm ; 
I love to wet my foot in Hermon's dews ; 
I love the promptings of Isaiah's muse ; 
In Carmel's holy grots I '11 court repose, 
And deck my mossy couch with Sharon's deathless rose. 

Here arching vines their leafy banner spread, 
And hold their green shields o'er the pilgrim's head, 
At once repelling Syria's burning ray, 
And breathing freshness on the sultry day. 
Here the wild bee suspends her murmuring wing, 
Pants on the rock, or sips the silver spring ; 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

And here, — as musing on my theme divine, 
I gather flowers to bloom along my line, 
And hang my garland in festoons around, 
Enwreathed with clusters, and with tendrils bound ; 
And fondly, warmly, humbly hope, the Power, 
That gave perfume and beauty to the flower, 
Drew living water from this rocky shrine, 
Purpled the clustering honors of the vine, 
And led me, lost in devious mazes, hither, 
To weave a garland, will not let it wither : — 
Wondering, I listen to the strain sublime, 
That flows, all freshly, down the stream of time, 
Wafted in grand simplicity along, 
The undying breath, the very soul of song. 
Down that long vale of years are sweetly rolled 
The mingled voices of the bards of old ; 
Melodious voices ! bards of brightest fire ! 
Where each is warm, how melting is the quire ! 
Yet, though so blended is the concert blest, 
Some master tones are heard above the rest. 

O'er the cleft sea the storm in fury rides : 
Israel is safe, and Egypt tempts the tides : 
Her host, descending, meets a watery grave, 
And o'er her monarch rolls the refluent wave. 
The storm is hushed ; the billows foam no more, 
But sink in smiles ; — there 's Music on the shore ! 
On the wide waste of waters, dies that air 
Unheard ; for all is death and coldness there. 
But see ! the robe that brooding Silence throws 
O'er Shur reclining in profound repose, 



8 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Is rent and scattered by the burst of praise, 
That swells the song the astonished Hebrews raise. 
The desert waked at that proud anthem, flung 
From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses 1 tongue : 1 
The first to Liberty that e'er was sung. 

But if, when joy and gratitude inspire, 
Such high-toned triumph wakes the exulting lyre, 
What are its breathings, when pale Sorrow flings 
Her tearful touches o'er its trembling strings ? 

At Nebo's base, that mighty bard resigns 
His life and empire in prophetic lines. 2 — 
Heaven, all attention, round the poet bends, 
And conscious earth, as when the dew descends, 
Or showers as gentle, feels her young buds swell, 
Her herbs shoot greener, as he bids farewell. 
Rich is the song, though mournfully it flows : 
And as that harp, which God alone bestows, 
Is swept in concert with that sinking breath, 
Its cold chords shrink, as from the touch of death. 
It was the touch of death ! — Sweet be thy slumbers, 
Harp of the prophet ! but those holy numbers, 
That death-denoting, monitory moan, 
Shall live, till Nature heaves her dying groan. , 
From Pisgah's top his eye the prophet threw, 
O'er Jordan's wave, where Canaan met his view. 
His sunny mantle, and his hoary locks 
Shone, like the robe of Winter, on the rocks. 
Where is that mantle ? — Melted into air. 
Where is the prophet ? — God can tell thee where. 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

So, in the morning, round some woody height, 
A fleecy cloud hangs hovering in the light, 
Fit couch for angels ; which while yet we view, 
'T is lost to earth, in the clear depths of blue. 

Who is that chief, already taught to urge 
The battle stream, and roll its darkest surge ; 
Whose army marches through retiring seas, 
Whose gory banner, spreading on the breeze, 
Lnfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers, 3 
And, like the storm o'er Sodom, redly lowers ? 
Tae Moon can answer ; for she heard his tongue, 
Ar.d cold and pale o'er Ajalon she hung. 4 
Th3 Sun can tell : — o'er Gibeon's vale of blood, 
Curving their beamy necks, his coursers stood, 
Held by that hero's arm, to light his wrath, 
And roll their glorious eyes upon his crimson path. 
What mine, exploding, rends that smoking ground ? 
What earthquake spreads those smouldering ruins 

round ? 
The sons of Levi, round that city, bear 
The ark of God, their consecrated care, 
And, in rude concert, each returning morn, 
Blow the long trump, and wind the curling horn. 
No blackening thunder smoked along the wall ; 
No earthquake shook it : — Music wrought its fall. 

The reverend hermit, who from earth retires, 
Freezes to love's, to melt in holier fires, 
And builds on Libanus his humble shed, 5 
Beneath the waving cedars of his head ; — 



10 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Year after year with brighter views revolving, 
Doubt after doubt in stronger hopes dissolving ; — 
Though neither pipe, nor voice, nor organ's swell, 
Disturb the silence of his lonely cell ; 
Yet hears enough, had nought been heard before, 
To wake a holy awe, and teach him to adore. 
For, ere the day with orisons he closes, 
Ere on his flinty couch his head reposes, — 
A couch more downy in the hermit's sight, 
Than one of rose-leaves to the Sybarite, — 
As lone he muses on those naked rocks, 
Heaven's Last light blushing on his silver locks, 
Amid the deepening shades of that wild mountain, 
He hears the burst of many a mossy fountain, 
Whose crystal rills in pure embraces mingle, 
And dash and sparkle down the leafy dingle, 
There lose their liquid notes : — with grateful glow, 
The hermit listens, as the waters flow, 
And says, there 's Music in that mountain stream. 
The storm beneath him, and the eagle's scream. 

There lives around that solitary man 
The tameless Music, that with time began : 
Airs of the Power, that bids the tempest roar, 
The cedar bow, the royal eagle soar; 
The mighty Power, by whom those rocks were piled, 
Who moves unseen, and murmurs through the wild. 
What countless chords does that dread Being strike ! 
Various their tone, but all divine alike : 
There, Mercy whispers in a balmy breath, 
Here, Anger thunders, and the note is death ; 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 11 

There, 't is a string that soothes with slow vibration, 
And here, a burst that shakes the whole creation. 

By Heaven forewarned his hunted life to save, 
Behold Elijah stands by Horcb's cave ; 
Grieved that the God, for whom he 'd warmly striven, 
Should see his servants into exile driven, 
His words neglected, by those servants spoken, 
His prophets murdered, and his altars broken. 
His bleeding heart a soothing strain requires : 
He hears it : — softer than iEolian lyres, 
" A still, small voice," like Zephyr's dying sighs, 
Steals on his ear : — he may not lift his eyes, 
But o'er his face his flowing mantle flings, 
And hears a whisper from the King of kings. 6 

Yet, from that very cave, from Horeb's side, 
Where spreads a desert prospect, wild and wide, 
The prophet sees, with reverential dread, 
Dark Sinai rear his thunder-blasted head ; 
Where erst was poured on trembling Israel's ear 
A stormier peal, that Moses quaked to hear. 
In what tremendous pomp Jehovah shone, 
When on that mount he fixed his burning throne ! 7 
Thick, round its base, a shuddering gloom was flung: 
Black, on its breast, a thunder-cloud was hung : 
Bright, through that blackness, arrowy lightnings came, 
Shot from the glowing vail, that wrapped its head in 

flame. 
And when that quaking mount the Eternal trod, 
Scorched by the foot of the descending God, 



12 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Then blasts of unseen trumpets, long and loud, 
Swelled by the breath of whirlwinds, rent- the cloud, 
And Death and Terror stalked beneath that smoky- 
shroud. 

Seest thou that shepherd boy, of features fair, 
Of eye serene, and brightly flowing hair, 
That leans, in thoughtful posture, on his crook, 
And, statue-like, pores o'er the pebbly brook ? 
Yes : and why stands he there, in stupor cold ? 
Why not pursue those wanderers from his fold ? 
Or, 'mid the playful children of his flocks, 
Toss his light limbs, and shake his amber locks, 
Rather than idly gaze upon the stream ? — 
That boy is lost in a poetic dream : 
And, while his eye follows the wave along, 
His soul expatiates in the realms of song. 
For oft, where yonder grassy hills recede, 
I 've heard that shepherd tune his rustic reed ; 
And then such sweetness from his fingers stole, 
I knew that Music had possessed his soul. 
Oft in her temple shall the votary bow, 
Oft at her altar breathe his ardent vow, 
And oft suspend, along her coral walls, 
The proudest trophies that adorn her halls. 
Even now the heralds of his monarch tear 
The son of Jesse from his fleecy care, 8 
And to the hall the ruddy minstrel bring, 
Where sits a being, that was once a king. 
Still on his brow the crown of Israel gleams, 
And cringing courtiers still adore its beams, 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 13 

Though the bright circle throws no light divine, 
But rays of heli, that melt it while they shine. 

As the young harper tries each quivering wire, 
It leaps and sparkles with prophetic fire, 
And, with the kindling song, the kindling rays 
Around his fingers tremulously blaze, 
Till the whole hall, like those blest fields above, 
Glows with the light of melody and love. 

Soon as the foaming demon hears that psalm, 
Heaven on his memory bursts, and Eden's balm : 
He sees the dawnings of too bright a sky ; 
Detects the angel in the poet's eye ; 
With grasp convulsive rends his matted hair ; 
Through his strained eyeballs shoots a fiend-like glare ; 
And flies, with shrieks of agony, that hall, 
The throne of Israel, and the breast of Saul, 
Exiled to roam, or, in infernal pains, 
To seek a refuge from that shepherd's strains. 

The night was moonless : — Judah's shepherds kept 
Their starlight watch : their flocks around them slept. 9 
To heaven's blue fields their wakeful eyes were turned, 
And to the fires that there eternal burned. 
Those azure regions had been peopled long, 
With Fancy's children, by the sons of song: 
And there the simple shepherd, conning o'er 
His humble pittance of Chaldean lore, 
Saw, in the stillness of a starry night, 
The Swan and Eagle wing their silent flight, 10 



14 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

And, from their spangled pinions, as they flew, 

On Israel's vales of verdure shower the dew : 

Saw there the brilliant gems, that nightly flare 

In the thin mist of Berenice's hair ; 

And there Bootes roll his lucid wain, 

On sparkling wheels, along the ethereal plain ; 

And there the Pleiades, in tuneful gyre, 

Pursue for ever the star-studded Lyre ; 

And there, with bickering lash, heaven's Charioteer 

Urge round the Cynosure his bright career. 

While thus the shepherds watched the host of night, 
O'er heaven's blue concave flashed a sudden light. 
The unrolling glory spread its folds divine 
O'er the green hills and vales of Palestine ; 
And lo ! descending angels, hovering there, 
Stretched their loose wings, and in the purple air 
Hung o'er the sleepless guardians of the fold : — 
When that high anthem, clear, and strong, and bold, 
On wavy paths of trembling ether ran : 
" Glory to God ; — Benevolence to man ; — 
Peace to the world : " — and in full concert came, 
From silver tubes and harps of golden frame, 
The loud and sweet response, whose choral strains 
Lingered and languished on Judea's plains. 
Yon living lamps, charmed from their chambers blue 
By airs so heavenly, from the skies withdrew : 
All ? — all, but one, that hung and burned alone, 
And with mild lustre over Bethlehem shone. 
Chaldea's sages saw that orb afar 
Glow unextinguished; — 'twas Salvation's Star. 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 15 

Hear'st thou that solemn symphony, that swells 
And echoes through Philippi's gloomy cells ? 
From vault to vault the heavy notes rebound, 
And granite rocks reverberate the sound. 
The wretch, who long, in dungeons cold and dank, 
His chains had shaken, that their iron clank 
Might break the grave-like silence of that prison, 
On which the Star of Hope had never risen ; 
Then sunk in slumbers, by despair oppressed, 
And dreamed of freedom in his broken rest ; 
Wakes at the music of those mellow strains, 
Thinks it some spirit, and forgets his chains. 
'T is Paul and Silas ; — with the voice of prayer, 
And holy chant, they load the midnight air. 
Soon is their anthem wafted to the skies : 
An angel bears it, and a God replies. 
At that reply, a pale, portentous light 
Plays through the air, — then leaves a gloomier night. 
The darkly tottering towers, the trembling arch, 
The rocking walls, confess an earthquake's march, 11 — 
The stars look dimly through the roof: — behold, 
From saffron dews and melting clouds of gold, 
Brightly uncurling on the dungeon's air, 
Freedom walks forth serene : — from her loose hair, 
And every glistening feather of her wings, 
Perfumes that breathe of more than earth she flings, 
And with a touch dissolves the prisoner's chains, 
Whose song had charmed her from celestial plains. 

'T is night again : for Music loves to steal 
Abroad at night ; when all her subjects kneel, 



16 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

In more profound devotion, at her throne : 

And, at that sober hour, she '11 sit alone, 

Upon a bank, by her sequestered cell, 

And breathe her sorrows through her wreathed shell. 

Again 'tis night, — the diamond lights on high 

Burn bright, and dance harmonious through the sky ; 

And Silence leads her downy-footed hours 

Round Sion's hill and Salem's holy towers. 

The Lord of Life, with his few faithful friends, 

Drowned in mute sorrow, down that hill descends. 

They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes 

Around the tomb, where sleep a monarch's ashes ; 12 

And climb the steep, where oft the midnight air 

Received the Sufferer's solitary prayer. 

There, in dark bowers imbosomed, Jesus flings 

His hand celestial o'er prophetic strings ; 

Displays his purple robe, his bosom gory, 

His crown of thorns, his cross, his future glory : — 

And, while the group, each hallowed accent gleaning, 

On pilgrim's staff, in pensive posture, leaning, — 

Their reverend beards, that sweep their bosoms, wet 

With the chill dews of shady Olivet, — 

Wonder and weep, they pour the song of sorrow, 13 

With their loved Lord, whose death shall shroud the 

morrow. 
Heavens ! what a strain was that ! those matchless tones, 
That ravish " Princedoms, Dominations, Thrones " ; 
That, heard on high, had hushed those peals of praise, 
That seraphs swell, and harping angels raise ; 
Soft, as the wave from Siloa's fount that flows, 
Through the drear silence of the mountain rose. 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 17 

How sad the Saviour's song ! how sweet ! how holy ! 
The last he sung on earth : — how melancholy ! 
Along the valley sweep the expiring notes : 
On Kedron's wave the melting music floats : 
From her blue arch, the lamp of evening flings 
Her mellow lustre, as the Saviour sings : 
The moon above, the wave beneath, is still, 
And light and music mingle on the hill. 

The glittering guard, whose viewless ranks invest 
The brook's green margin and the mountain's crest, 
Catch that unearthly song, and soar away, 
Leave this dark orb, for fields of endless day, 
And round the Eternal's throne on buoyant pinions play. 

Ye glowing seraphs, that enchanted swim 
In seas of rapture, as ye tune the hymn 
Ye bore from earth, — O say, ye choral quires, 
Why in such haste to wake your golden lyres ? 
Why, like a flattering, like a fleeting dream, 
Leave that lone mountain, and that silent stream ? 
Say, could not then the " Man of Sorrows" claim 
Your shield of adamant, your sword of flame ? — 
Hell forced a smile at your retiring wing, 
And man was left — to crucify your King. 

But must no other sweets perfume my wreath, 
Than Carmel's hill and Sharon's valley breathe ? 
Are holy airs borne only through the skies 
Where Sinai thunders, and where Horeb sighs ? 

2 



18 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

And move they only o'er Arabia's sea, 

Bethesda's pool, the lake of Galilee ? 

And does the hand that bids Judea bloom, 

Deny its blossoms to the desert's gloom ? 

No : — turn thine eye, in visionary glance, 

To scenes beyond old Ocean's blue expanse, 

Where vast La Plata rolls his weight along 

Through worlds unknown to science and to song, 

And, sweeping proudly o'er his boundless plain, 

Repels the foaming billows of the main. 

Let Fancy lap thee in his bordering bowers, 

And scatter round thee Nature's wildest flowers : 

For Nature there, since first her opening eye 

Hailed the bright orb her Father hung on high, 

Still on her bosom wears the enamelled vest, 

That bloomed and budded on her infant breast ; 

Still to the sportive breeze, that round her blows, 

Turns her warm cheek, her unshorn tresses throws ; 

With grateful hand her treasured balm bequeaths 

For every sigh the enamoured rover breathes, 

And even smiles to feel the flutterer sip 

The virgin dew that cools her rosy lip. 

There, through the clouds, stupendous mountains rise, 

And lift their icy foreheads to the skies ; 

There blooming valleys and secure retreats 

Bathe all thy senses in voluptuous sweets : 

Reclining there, beneath a bending tree, 

Fraught with the fragrant labors of the bee, 

Admire, with me, the birds of varied hue, 

That hang, like flowers of orange and of blue, 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 19 

Among the broad magnolia's cups of snow, 
Quaffing the perfumes, from those cups that flow. 

But is all peace, beneath the mountain shade ? 
Do Love and Mercy haunt that sunny glade, 
And sweetly rest upon that lovely shore, 
When light retires, and nature smiles no more ? 
No : — there, at midnight, the hoarse tiger growls : 
There the gaunt wolf sits on his rock and howls : 
And there, in painted pomp, the yelling Indian prowls. 

Round the bold front of yon projecting cliff, 
Shoots, on white wings, the missionary's skiff, 
And, walking steadily along the tide, 
Seems, like a phantom, o'er the wave to glide, 
Her light cymar unfolded to the breeze, 
That breaks not, though it moves, the mirror of the seas. 

Lo, at the stern, the priest of Jesus rears 
His reverend front, ploughed by the share of years. 14 
He takes his harp : — the spirits of the air 
Breathe on his brow, and interweave his hair, 
In silky flexure, with the sounding strings : — 
And hark ! — the holy missionary sings. 
'T is the Gregorian chant : — with him unites, 
On either hand, his quire of neophytes, 
While the boat cleaves its liquid path along, 
And waters, woods, and winds protract the song. 

Those unknown strains the forest war-whoop hush : 
Huntsmen and warriors from their cabins rush, 



20 AIRS OF PA LEST INK. 

Heed not the foe, that yells defiance nigh, 

See not the deer, that dashes wildly hy, 

Drop from their hand the how ami rattling quiver, 

Crowd to the shore, and plunge into the river, 

Breast the green waves, the enchanted hark that toss, 

Leap o'er her sides, and kneel before the cross. 

Hear yon poetic pilgrim of the west 
Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest ; 15 
Who now, in Florida's untrodden woods, 
Bedecks, with vines of jessamine, her Hoods, 
And flowery bridges o'er them loosely throws ; — 
Who hangs the canvass where Atala glows, 
On the live oak, in floating drapery shrouded, 
That like a mountain rises, lightly clouded ; — 
Who, for the son of Outalissi, twines. 
Beneath the shade of ever-whispering pines, 
A funeral wreath, to hloom upon the moss, 
That Time already sprinkles on the cross, 
Raised o'er the grave, where his young virgin sleeps, 
And Superstition o'er her victim weeps ; — 
Whom now the silence of the dead surrounds, 
Among Scioto's monumental mounds ; 
Save that, at times, the musing pilgrim hears 
A crumbling oak fall with the weight of years, 
To swell the mass, that Time and Ruin throw, 
O'er chalky bones, that mouldering lie below, 
By virtues unembalmed, unstained by crimes, 
Lost in those towering tombs of other times ; 
For, where no bard has cherished Virtue's llame, 
No ashes sleep in the warm sun of Fame. — 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 21 

With sacred lore, this traveller beguiles 

His weary way, while o'er him Fancy smiles. 

Whether he kneels in venerable groves, 

Or through the wide and green savanna roves, 

His heart leaps lightly on each breeze, that bears 

The faintest breath of Idumea's airs. 

Now, he recalls the lamentable wail, 
That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale, 10 
When Murder struck, throned on an infant's bier, 
A note for Satan's and for Herod's ear. 
Now, on a bank, o'erhung with waving wood, 
Whose falling leaves flit o'er Ohio's flood, 
The pilgrim stands ; and o'er his memory rushes 
The mingled tide of tears and blood, that gushes 
Along the valleys, where his childhood strayed, 
And round the temples where his fathers prayed. 
How fondly then, from all but Hope exiled, 
To Zion's woe recurs Religion's child ! 
He sees the tear of Judah's captive daughters 
Mingle, in silent flow, with Babel's waters ; 
While Salem's harp, by patriot pride unstrung, 
Wrapped in the mist, that o'er the river hung, 
Felt but the breeze, that wantoned o'er tbe billow, 
And the long, sweeping fingers of the willow. 

And could not Music soothe the captive's woe ? — 
But should that harp be strung for Judah's foe ? 

While thus the enthusiast roams along the stream, 
Balanced between a re very and a dream, 



22 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Backward he springs : and, through his bounding heart, 

The cold and curdling poison seems to dart. 

For, in the leaves, beneath a quivering brake, 

Spinning his death-note, lies a coiling snake, 

Just in the act, with greenly venomed fangs, 

To strike the foot, that heedless o'er him hangs. 

Bloated with rage, on spiral folds he rides ; 

His rough scales shiver on his spreading sides ; 

Dusky and dim his glossy neck becomes, 

And freezing poisons thicken on his gums ; 

His parched and hissing throat breathes hot and dry ; 

A spark of hell lies burning on his eye : 

While, like a vapor, o'er his writhing rings, 

Whirls his light tail, that threatens while it sings. 

Soon as dumb Fear removes her icy fingers 
From off the heart, where gazing wonder lingers, 
The pilgrim, shrinking from a doubtful fight, 
Aware of danger, too, in sudden flight, 
From his soft flute throws Music's air around, 
And meets his foe upon enchanted ground. 
See ! as the plaintive melody is flung, 
The lightning flash fades on the serpent's tongue ; 
The uncoiling reptile o'er each shining fold 
Throws changeful clouds of azure, green, and-gold ; 
A softer lustre twinkles in his eye ; 
His neck is burnished with a glossier dye ; 
His slippery scales grow smoother to the sight, 
And his relaxing circles roll in light. — 
Slowly the charm retires : — with waving sides, 
Along its track the graceful listener glides ; 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 23 

While Music throws her silver cloud around, 
And bears her votary off, in magic folds of sound. 

On Arno's bosom, as he calmly flows, 
And his cool arms round Vallombrosa throws, 
Rolling his crystal tide through classic vales, 
Alone, — at night, — the Italian boatman sails. 
High o'er Mont' Alto walks, in maiden pride, 
Night's queen ; — he sees her image on that tide, 
Now, ride the wave that curls its infant crest 
Around his prow, then rippling sinks to rest ; 
Now, glittering dance around his eddying oar, 
Whose every sweep is echoed from the shore ; 
Now, far before him, on a liquid bed 
Of waveless water, rest her radiant head. 
How mild the empire of that virgin queen ! 
How dark the mountain's shade ! how still the scene ! 
Hushed by her silver sceptre, zephyrs sleep 
On dewy leaves, that overhang the deep, 
Nor dare to whisper through the boughs, nor stir 
The valley's willow, nor the mountain's fir, 
Nor make the pale and breathless aspen quiver, 
Nor brush, with ruffling wing, that glassy river. 

Hark! — 't is a convent's bell : — its midnight chime ; 
For music measures even the march of Time : — 
O'er bending trees, that fringe the distant shore, 
Gray turrets rise : — the eye can catch no more. 
The boatman, listening to the tolling bell, 
Suspends his oar : — a low and solemn swell, 



24 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

From the deep shade, that round the cloister lies, 
Rolls through the air, and on the water dies. 
What melting song wakes the cold ear of Night ? 
A funeral dirge, that pale nuns, robed in white, 
Chant round a sister's dark and narrow bed, 
To charm the parting spirit of the dead. 
Triumphant is the spell ! with raptured ear, 
That uncaged spirit hovering lingers near ; — 
Why should she mount ? why pant for brighter bliss, 
A lovelier scene, a sweeter song, than this ! 

On Caledonia's hills, the ruddy morn 
Breathes fresh : — the huntsman winds his clamorous 

horn. 
The youthful minstrel from his pallet springs, 
Seizes his harp, and tunes its slumbering strings. 
Lark-like he mounts o'er gray rocks, thunder-riven, 
Lark-like he cleaves the white mist, tempest-driven, 
And lark-like carols, as the cliff he climbs, 
Whose oaks were vocal with his earliest rhymes. 
With airy foot he treads that giddy height ; 
His heart all rapture, and his eye all light ; 
His voice all melody, his yellow hair 
Floating and dancing on the mountain air, 
Shaking from its loose folds the liquid pearls, - 
That gather clustering on his golden curls ; — 
And, for a moment, gazes on a scene, 
Tinged with deep shade, dim gold, and brightening 

green ; 
Then plays a mournful prelude, while the star 
Of morning fades : — but when heaven's gates unbar, 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 25 

And on the world a tide of glory rushes, 
Burns on the hill, and down the valley blushes ; 
The mountain bard in livelier numbers sings, 
While sunbeams warm and gild the conscious strings, 
And his young bosom feels the enchantment strong 
Of light, and joy, and minstrelsy, and song. 

From rising morn, the tuneful stripling roves 
Through smiling valleys and religious groves ; 
Hears, there, the flickering blackbird strain his throat, 
Here, the lone turtle pour her mournful note, 
Till night descends, and round the wanderer flings 
The dewdrops dripping from her dusky wings. 
Far from his native vale and humble shed 
By nature's smile and nature's music led, 
This child of melody has thoughtless strayed, 
Till darkness wraps him in her deepening shade. 
The scene that cheered him, when arrayed in light, 
Now lowers around him with the frown of night. 

With weary foot the nearest height he climbs, 
Crowned with huge oaks, giants of other times ; 
Who feel, but fear not, autumn's breath, and cast 
Their summer robes upon the roaring blast, 
And, glorying in their majesty of form, 
Toss their old arms, and challenge every storm. 
Below him, Ocean rolls : — deep in a wood, 
Built on a rock, and frowning o'er the flood, 
Like the dark Cyclops of Trinacria's isle, 
Rises an old and venerable pile : 



26 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Gothic its structure ; once a cross it bore, 

And pilgrims thronged to hail it and adore. 

Mitres and crosiers awed the trembling friar, 

The solemn organ led the chanting quire, 

When in those vaults the midnight dirge was sung, 

And o'er the dead a requiescat rung. 

Now, all is still : — the midnight anthem hushed : — 

The cross is crumbled, and the mitre crushed. 

And is all still ? — No : round those ruined altars, 

With feeble foot as our musician falters, 

Faint, weary, lost, benighted, and alone, 

He sinks, all trembling, on the threshold stone. 

Here nameless fears the young enthusiast chill : 

They 're superstitious, but religious still. 

He hears the sullen murmur of the seas, 

That tumble round the stormy Orcades, 

Or, deep beneath him, heave with boundless roar 

Their sparkling surges to that savage shore ; 

And thinks a spirit rolls the weltering waves 

Through rifted rocks and hollow-rumbling caves. 

Round the dark windows clasping ivy clings, 
Twines round the porch, and in the sea-breeze swings ; 
Its green leaves rustle : — heavy winds arise ; 
The low cells echo, and the dark hall sighs. - 
Now Fancy sees the ideal canvass stretched, 
And o'er the lines, that Truth has dimly sketched, 
Dashes with hurried hand the shapes that fly 
Hurtled along before her frenzied eye. 
The scudding cloud, that drives along the coast, 
Becomes the drapery of a warrior's ghost, 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 27 

Who sails serenely in his gloomy pall, 

O'er Morven's woods and Tura's mouldering wall, 

To join the feast of shells, in Odin's misty hall. 

Is that some demon's shriek, so loud and shrill, 

Whose flapping robes sweep o'er the stormy hill ? 

No : — 't is the mountain blast, that nightly rages 

Around those walls, gray with the moss of ages. 

Is that a lamp sepulchral, whose pale light 

Shines in yon vault, before a spectre white ? 

No : — 't is a glow-worm, burning greenly there, 

Or meteor, swimming slowly on the air. 

What mighty organ swells its deepest tone, 

And sighing heaves a low, funereal moan, 

That murmurs through the cemetery's glooms, 

And throws a deadlier horror round its tombs ? 

Sure, some dread spirit o'er the keys presides ! 

The same that lifts these darkly thundering tides ; 

Or, homeless, shivers o'er an unclosed grave ; 

Or shrieking, off at sea, bestrides the white-maned wave. 

Yes! — 't is some Spirit that those skies deforms, 
And wraps in billowy clouds that hill of storms. 
Yes : — 't is a Spirit in those vaults that dwells, 
Illumes that hall, and murmurs in those cells. 
Yes : — 't is some Spirit on, the blast that rides, 
And wakes the eternal tumult of the tides. 
That Spirit broke the poet's morning dream, 
Led him o'er woody hill and babbling stream, 
Lured his young foot to every vale that rung, 
And charmed his ear in every bird that sung; 
With various concerts cheered his hours of light, 
But kept the mightiest in reserve till night ; 



28 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Then, throned in darkness, pealed that wildest air, 
Froze his whole soul, and chained the listener there. 

That Mighty Spirit once from Teman came : 
Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame. 17 
Bowed the perpetual hills : — the rivers fled : — 
Green Ocean trembled to his deepest bed : — 
Earth shrunk aghast, — eternal mountains burned, 
And his red axle thundered as it turned. 

O ! Thou Dread Spirit ! Being's End and Source ! 
Check thy bright chariot in its fervid course. 
Bend from thy throne of darkness and of fire, 
And with one smile immortalize our lyre. 
Amid the cloudy lustre of thy throne, 
Though wreathy tubes, unheard on earth, are blown, 
In sweet accord with the undying hymn 
Of angel quires and harping Seraphim, 
Still hast thou stooped to hear a shepherd play, 
To prompt his measures, and approve his lay. 
Hast thou grown old, Thou, who for ever livest ! 
Hast thou forgotten, Thou, who memory givest ! 
How, on the day thine ark, with loud acclaim, 
From Zion's hill to Mount Moriah came, 
Beneath the wings of Cherubim to rest, 
In a rich vail of Tyrian purple dressed ; 
When harps and cymbals joined in echoing clang, 
When psalteries tinkled, and when trumpets rang, 
And white-robed Levites round thine altar sang, 
Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the crowd, 
Inshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud, 
And fill the temple with thy mantling cloud. 18 



AIRS OF PALESTINE. 29 

And now, Almighty Father, well we know, 
When humble strains from grateful bosoms (low, 
Those humble strains grow richer as they rise, 
And shed a balmier freshness on the skies. 

What though no Cherubim are here displayed, 
No gilded walls, no cedar colonnade, 
No crimson curtains hang around our quire, 
Wrought by the cunning artisan of Tyre ; 
No doors of fir on golden hinges turn ; 
No spicy gums in golden censers burn ; 
No frankincense, in rising volumes, shrouds 
The fretted roof in aromatic clouds ; 
No royal minstrel, from his ivory throne, 
Gives thee his father's numbers or his own ; — 
If humble love, if gratitude inspire, 
Our strain shall silence even the temple's quire, 
And rival Michael's trump, nor yield to Gabriel's lyre. 

In what rich harmony, what polished lays, 
Should man address thy throne, when Nature pays 
Her wild, her tuneful tribute to the sky ! 
Yes, Lord, she sings thee, but she knows not why. 
The fountain's gush, the long resounding shore, 
The zephyr's whisper, and the tempest's roar, 
The rustling leaf in autumn's fading woods, 
The wintry storm, the rush of vernal floods, 
The summer bower, by cooling breezes fanned, 
The torrent's fall, by dancing rainbows spanned, 
The streamlet, gurgling through its rocky glen, 
The long grass, sighing o'er the graves of men, 



30 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

The bird that crests yon dew-bespangled tree, 

Shakes his bright plumes, and trills his descant free, 

The scorching bolt, that, from thine armoury hurled, 

Burns its red path, and cleaves a shrinking world ; 

All these are music to Religion's ear, — 

Music, thy hand awakes, for man to hear. 

Thy hand invested in their azure robes, 

Thy breath made buoyant, yonder circling globes, 

That bound and blaze along the elastic wires, 

That viewless vibrate on celestial lyres, 

And in that high and radiant concave tremble, 

Beneath whose dome adoring hosts .assemble, 

To catch the notes, from those bright spheres that flow, 

Which mortals dream of, but which angels know. 

Before thy throne, three sister Graces kneel ; 
Their holy influence let our bosoms feel ! 
Faith, that with smiles lights up our dying eyes ; 
Hope, that directs them to the opening skies ; 
And Charity, the loveliest of the three, 
That can assimilate a worm to thee. 
For her our organ breathes ; 19 to her we pay 
The heartfelt homage of an humble lay ; 
And while, to her, symphonious chords we string, 
And Silence listens while to her we sing, 
While round thine altar swells our evening song, 
And vaulted roofs the dying notes prolong, 
The strain we pour to her, do thou approve ; 
For Love is Charity, and Thou art Love. 



NOTES 



Note 1. Page 8. 

lt The desert waked at that proud anthem, flung 
From Miriam's timbrel and from Moses' tongue." 

For the song of Moses, on this occasion, see Exodus xv. 1 -22. 



Note 2. Page 8. 

" At JYebo's base, that mighty bard resigns 
His life and empire in prophetic lines." 

See the whole of the pathetic and eloquent valedictory ad- 
dress of Moses to the Israelites, in the xxxii. chapter of Deu- 
teronomy, from the beginning to the 43d verse. His death, 
and other events here mentioned, follow in regular course. 



Note 3. Page 9. 

" Unfolds o'er Jericho's devoted towers." 

For the account of the destruction of Jericho, by the Jews 
under the command of Joshua, see Joshua vi., particularly 
verse 20th, " So the people shouted, when the priests blew the 
trumpets ; and it came to pass, when the people heard the sound 



32 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

of the trumpets, and the people shouted with a great shout, that 
the wall fell down flat, so that the people went up into the city, 
every man straight before him, and they took the city." 

Note 4. Page 9- 

" And cold and jyale o'er Ajalon she hung." 

" Then spake Joshua to the Lord, in the day when the Lord 
delivered up the Amorites before the children of Israel, Sun, 
stand thou still upon Gibenn, and thou, Moon, in the valley of 
Ajalon. And the sun stood still, and the moon stayed, until 
the people had avenged themselves upon their enemies." — 
Josh. x. 12, 13. 

Note 5. Page 9. 

" And builds on Libanus his humble shed." 

u Horeb et Sinai', le Carmel et le Liban, le torrent de Cedron 
et la vallee de Josaphat, redisent encore la gloire de 1 'habitant 
de la cellule et de VanachorHe du rocher." — Ginie du Christian- 
isme, Tom. iv. p. 48, (Lyons edit.; 

Note C. Page 11. 

" But o'er his face his flowing mantle flings, 
And hears a ichisper from the King of kings." 

" And after the earthquake a fire ; but the Lord v/as not in the 
fire ; and after the fire, a still, small voice. And it was so, when 
Elijah heard it, that he wrapped his face in his mantle, and 
went out, and stood in the entering in of the cave. And, be- 
hold, there came a voice unto him, and said, What dost thou 
here, Ehjah ? "— 1 Kings xix. 12, 13. 



NOTES. 33 



Note 7. Page 11. 

" In ivhat tremendous pomp Jehovah shone, 

When on that mount he fixed his burning throne! " 

See the sublime account of the descent of God upon Mount 
Sinai, in Exodus xix., particularly from the 16th to the 19th 
verse, as also in Heb. xii. 18-21. 



Note 8. Page 12. 

11 Even 7WID, the heralds of his monarch tear 
The son of Jesse from his fleecy care.' 1 

" Wherefore Saul sent messengers unto Jesse, and said, 
Send me David thy son, which is with the sheep. And Jesse 
took an ass laden with bread, and a bottle of wine, and a kid, 
and sent them by David his son unto Saul. And David came 
to Saul, and stood before him ; and he loved him greatly, and 
he became his armour-bearer. And Saul sent to Jesse, saying, 
Let David, I pray thee, stand before me ; for he hath found 
favor in my sight. And it came to pass, when the evil spirit 
from God was upon Saul, that David took a harp, and played 
with his hand ; so Saul was refreshed, and was well, and the 
evil spirit departed from him." — 1 Sam. xvi. 19-23. 

Note 9. Page 13. 

tl The night icas vxoonless : — Judalis shepherds kept 
Their starlight icatch: their flocks around them slept." 

u And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in 
the 1 eld, k?eping watch over their flock by night. And lo, 
the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the 
Lord shone round about them." See the whole account, in 
Luke ii. 8- 15. 

3 



34 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

Note 10. Page 13. 

" Saw, in the stillness of a starry night, 
The Swan and Eagle icing their silent flight ." 

To the reader, who is but superficially acquainted with as- 
tronomy, no explanatory note is here necessary. To others it 
is enough to observe, that the Swan, the Eagle, Berenice's 
lock, Bootes, the Pleiades, the Lyre, and Auriga or the Chario- 
teer, are the names of constellations, or parts of constellations, 
visible in the northern hemisphere, — of course in Palestine. — 
Cynosure is the classical name of the Pole-star. 



Note 11. Page 15. 

11 The darkly tottering towers, the trembling arch, 
The rocking walls, confess an earthquake's ynarch." 

"And when they had laid many stripes upon them, (Paul 
and Silas,) they cast them into prison, charging the jailer to 
keep them safely ; who, having received such a charge, thrust 
them into the inner prison, and made their feet fast in the 
stocks. And at midnight Paul and Silas prayed, and sang 
praises unto God; and the prisoners heard them. And suddenly 
there was a great earthquake, so that the foundations of the 
prison were shaken ; and immediately the doors were opened, 
and every one's bands were loosed." — %cts xvi. 23-26. 



Note 12. Page 16. 

" They cross the stream that bathes its foot, and dashes 
Around the tomb, tchere sleep a monarch's ashes.'' 

The valley of Jehoshaphat is between Jerusalem and the 
Mount of Olives, on the east. Through this valley flows the 
brook Kedron, or Cedron : on the eastern bank of this river 
stands the tomb of Jehoshaphat. 



NOTES. 35 



Note 13. Page 16. 

" They pour the song of sorrow, 
With their loved Lord." 

In this deeply interesting scene, I have taken the liberty of 
varying the order in which the events of the evening before the 
crucifixion occurred ; in that I have supposed the hymn to be 
sung after crossing the Kedron, and ascending the Mount of 
Olives, — rather than in the supper chamber, as stated by Mat- 
thew. With this acknowledgment, I presume, the license will 
be excused. I considered the scene thus laid, more poetical, 
and not less solemn or religious. — See Matth. xxvi. 30, 31. 



Note 14. Page 19. 

" Lo, at the stern, the priest of Jesus rears 
His reverend front, ploughed by the share of years." 

Let not the Protestant reader be alarmed at seeing a Jesuit 
in company with Music and Religion. I do assure him, it is 
a supposable case. I am not ignorant of the fact, that many 
accounts of the arts and ambition of this order of Christians 
have been given to the world, which are not the most favorable 
to the purity or disinterestedness of their piety ; and I am well 
aware, that, if poetry and fiction are synonymous terms, there 
is but little poetry in too many of these accounts. But let the 
Protestant reader recollect, that most of these views have been 
drawn by Protestant pencils. — " Let us lions be the painters," 
say the Jesuits, "and we will show you a very different picture." 
One of their pieces of colored canvass I will lay before my 
readers, as well to show that I do not think the above request 
unreasonable, as to explain what may want explanation, in this 
scene of the poem : 

" II restait encore, aux pieds des Cordilieres, vers le cote qui 
regarde l'Atlantique, entre YOrenoque et Rio de la Plata, un 
pays immense, rempli de Sauvages, ou les Espagnols n'avaient 



36 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

point porte la devastation. Ce fut dans ces epaisses forets que 
les missionnaires entreprirent de former une republique chr6- 
tienne, et de donner, du moins a un petit nombre d'Indiens, le 
bonheur qu'ils n'avaient pu procurer a tous. 

" lis commencement par obtenir de la cour d'Espagne la lib- 
erie de tous les Sauvages qu'ils parviendraient a reunir. A 
cette nouvelle, les colons se souleverent ; ce ne fut qu'a force 
d'esprit et d'adresse que les Jesuites surprirent, pour ainsi dire, 
la permission de verser leur sang dans les forets du Nouveau- 
Monde. Enfin, ay ant triomphe de la cupidite et de la malice 
humaines ; meditant un des plus nobles desseins qu'ait jamais 
con^us un cceur d'homme, ils s'embarquerent pour Rio de la 
Plata. 

" C'est dans ce grand fleuve que vient se perdre cet autre 
fleuve, qui a dorme son nom au pays et aux missions, dont nous 
retrains l'histoire. Paraguay, dans la langue des Sauvages, 
signifie le Fleuve couronni, parce qu'il prend sa source dans le 
lac Xaray&s, qui lui sert comme de couronne. Avant d'aller 
grossir Rio de la Plata, il recoit les eaux du Parana et de VUra- 
guay. Des forets qui renferment dans leur sein d'autres forets 
tombees de vieillesse, des marais et des plaines entierement 
inondees dans la saison des pluies, des montagnes qui elevent 
des deserts sur des deserts, forment une partie des vastes re- 
gions que le Paraguay arrose. Le gibier de toute espece y 
abonde, ainsi que les tigres et les ours. Les bois sont remplis 
d'abeilles, qui font une cire fort blanche, et un miel tres-par- 
fume. On y voit des oiseaux d'un plumage eclatant, et qui 
ressemblent -a de grandes fleurs rouges et bleues, sur la verdure 
des arbres. Un missionnaire Fran^ais, qui s'etait egare dans 
ces solitudes, en fait la peinture suivante. 

" ' Je continuai ma route sans savoir a quel terme elle devait 
aboutir, et sans qu'il y eut personne qui put rne l'enseigner. 
Je trouvais quelquefois, au milieu de ces bois, des endroits en- 
chantes. Tout ce que l'etude et l'industrie des hommes ont pu 
imaginer pour rendre un lieu agreable n'approche point de ce 
que la simple nature y avait rassemble de beautes. 

" ' Ces lieux charmans me rappelerent les idces que j'avais 



NOTES. 37 

eues autrefois, en lisant les vies des anciens Solitaires de la 
Theba'ide : il me vint en pensee de passer le reste de mes jours 
dans ces forets ou la Providence m'avait conduit, pour y vaquer 
uniquement a l'affaire de mon salut, loin de tout commerce avec 
les hommes ; mais, comme je n'etais pas le maitre de ma des- 
tinee, et que les ordres du Seigneur m'etaient certainement 
marques par ceux de mes superieurs, je rejetai cette pensee 
comme une illusion.' 

" Les Indiens que Ton rencontrait dans ces retraites ne leur 
ressemblaient que par le cote affreux. Race indolente, stupide 
et feroce, elle montrait dans toute sa laideur l'homme primitif 
degrade par sa chute. Rien ne prouve davantage la degenera- 
tion de la nature humaine, que la petitesse du Sauvage dans la 
grandeur du desert. 

" Arrives a Buenos Ayres, les missionnaires remonterent Rio 
de la Plata, et, entrant dans les eaux du Paraguay, se disperse- 
rent dans ses bois sauvages. Les anciennes relations nous les 
representent, un breviaire sous le bras gauche, une grande croix 
a la main droite, et sans autre provision que leur confiance en 
Dieu. lis nous les peignent, se faisant jour a travers les forets, 
marchant dans des terres marecageuses ou ils avaient de l'eau 
jusqu'a la ceinture, gravissant des roches escarpees, et furetant 
dans les antres et les precipices, au risque d'y trouver des ser- 
pens et des betes feroces, au lieu des hommes qu'ils y cher- 
chaient. 

" Plusieurs d'entr'eux y rnoururent de faim et de fatigue ; 
d'autres furent massacres et devores par les Sauvages. Le 
pere Lizardi fut trouve perce de fleches sur un rocher ; son 
corps etait a demi dechire par les oiseaux de proie, et son bre- 
viaire etait ouvert aupres de lui a Tonice des Morts. Quand 
un missionnaire rencontrait ainsi les restes d'un de ses com- 
pagnons, il s'empressait de leur rendre les honneurs funebres ; 
et, plein d'une grande joie, il chantait un Te Deum solitaire sur 
le tombeau du martyr. 

" De pareilles scenes, renouvelees a chaque instant, etonnai- 
ent les hordes barbares. Quelquefois elles s'arretaient autour 
du pretre inconnu qui leur parlait de Dieu, et elles regardaient 



38 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

le ciel que l'apotre leur montrait ; quelquefois elles le fuyaient 
comme un enchanteur, et se sentaient saisies d'une frayeur 
etrange : le Religieux les suivait en leur tendant les mains au 
nom de Jesus-Christ. S'il ne pouvait les arreter, il plantait sa 
grande croix dans un lieu decouvert, et s'allait cacher dans les 
bois. Les Sauvages s'approchaient peu a peu pour examiner 
l'etendard de paix, eleve dans la solitude ; un aimant secret 
semblait les attirer a ce signe de leur salut. Alors le mission- 
naire sortant tout a coup de son embuscade, et profitant de la 
surprise des Barbares, les invitaient a quitter une vie miserable, 
pour jouir des douceurs de la societe. 

" Quand les Jesuites se furent attache quelques Indiens, ils 
eurent recours a un autre moyen pour gagner des ames. lis 
avaient remarque que les Sauvages de pes bords ctaient fort 
sensibles a la musique ; on dit meme que les eaux du Paraguay 
rendent la voix plus belle. Les missionnaires s'embarquerent 
done sur des pirogues avec les nouveaux catechumenes ; ils 
remonterent les fleuves en chantant de saints cantiques. Les 
neophytes repetaient les airs, comme des oiseaux prives chant- 
ent pour attirer dans les rets de l'oiseleur les oiseaux sauvages. 
Les Indiens ne manquerent point de se venir prendre au doux 
piege. Ils descendaient de leurs montagnes, et accouraient au 
bord des fleuves, pour mieux ecouter ces accens. Plusieurs 
d'entr'eux se jetaient dans les ondes, et suivaient a la nage la 
nacelle enchantee. La lune, en repandant sa lumiere niyste- 
rieuse sur ces scenes extraordinaires, achevait d'attendrir les 
coeurs. L'arc et la fleche echappaient a la main du Sauvage ; 
l'avant-gout des vertus sociales, et les premieres douceurs de 
l'humanite, cntraient dans son ame confuse. II voyait sa 
femme et son enfant pleurer d'une joie inconnue ; bientot, sub- 
jugue par un attrait irresistible, il tombait au pied de la croix, 
et melait des torrens de larmes aux eaux regeneratrices qui 
coulaient sur sa tete. 

"Ainsi la religion chretienne realisait dans les forets de 
l'Amerique, ce que la fable raconte des Amphion et des Or- 
phee : reflexion si naturelle, qu'elle s'est presentee meme aux 
missionnaires ; tant il est certain qu'on ne dit ici que la verite, 



NOTES. 39 

en ayant l'air de raconter une fiction." — Chateaubriand, Ginie 
du Christlanisme, torn. vnr. chap. iv. p. 40-48. 



Note 15. Page 20. 

" Hear yon poetic pilgrim of the west 
Chant Music's praise, and to her power attest" 

Chateaubriand. — Perhaps I ought to apologize to this gentle- 
man, — perhaps I owe the apology to the reader, for so fre- 
quently introducing him. The truth is, I find him very useful. 
If the facts stated by him are adapted to my purpose, I have a 
right to use them ; if the truth of his stories is questionable, 
his is the responsibility, not mine. I screen myself from blame, 
if 

" I say the tale as 't was said to me." 

This gentleman, it seems, has travelled through the United 
States, from the mouth of the Mississippi to the St. Lawrence. 
In Florida and the Western States, he has laid the scene of his 
" Atala," an exquisite little assemblage of beauties and absurd- 
ities. This little poem, or rather episode, forms a part of his 
great work, " Genie du Christianisme," or the Beauties of the 
Christian Religion. It has been translated separately, and will 
be read with pleasure by most lovers of polite literature. The 
allusions here to Atala may be briefly explained by observing, 
that Chastas, son of Outalissi, is the hero, and Atala the heroine 
of the poem, — that Atala poisons herself rather than violate an 
oath of celibacy, imposed by little less than the legal duress per 
minas ; and this act, upon which a coroner's inquest would re- 
turn a verdict either of suicide, or insanity, is considered by our 
author as an unequivocal proof of her piety. The Florida scen- 
ery, — the live-oak, mantled in its loose, mossy drapery, — the 
laurel, — the jessamine, that hangs in graceful festoons over the 
waters, — are all beautifully described, because the painting is 
from the life. His notice of the celebrated and wonderful bar- 
roics, or monumental tumuli, upon our western rivers, and his 



40 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

story of the serpent, charmed by the flute of the Canadian, will 
be seen in the passages here introduced from his work. 

As to the story of the snake, what he says he sate, we may 
perhaps believe, particularly as accounts somewhat similar are 
given by others. Besides, though M. de Chateaubriand cer- 
tainly does tell tales, that occasionally happen to partake of the 
marvellous, I do not know that he has yet been publicly con- 
victed of stating what is false, in regard to what has fallen 
under his own observation. There are those, indeed, who ques- 
tion his veracity even there, — where he has nothing to do with 
saints or legends, — and I must, for myself, confess, that my 
own opinion of his veracity has been somewhat shaken, by a 
French gentleman, a general officer under Bonaparte, and for 
some time a member of the National Institute, who tells me, that 
he knows JM. de Chateaubriand personally, though not i/iti- 
matcly, — for he claims to be a man of honor, and appears to be 
so, — and that he knows him not only to be, but to have been, 
in the pay of the French police, as a spy upon his fellow citi- 
zens, — and that he therefore ought to be, and is, universally 
despised. So much for the author of the G6nie du Christian- 
isme, Martyrs, Travels, &c. Here, then, follows a part of what 
I have made use of, remembering always that I am not writing 
history, but poetry. — Of the " monumental mounds " he says : 

" On a decouvert, depuis quelques annees, dans l'Amerique 
septentrionale, des monumens extraordinaires sur les bords du 
Muskingum, du Miami, du Wabache, de l'Ohio, et sur-tout du 
Scioto, ou ils occupent un espace de plus de vingt lieues en 
longueur. Ce sont des murs en terre avec des fosses, des glacis, 
des lunes, demi-lunes et de grands cones qui servent de sepul- 
cres. On a demande, mais sans succes, quel peuple a laisse de 
pareilles traces. L'homme est suspendu dans le present, entre 
le pass6, et l'avenir, comme sur un rocher entre deux gouffres : 
derriere lui, devant lui, tout est tenebres ; a peine appercoit il 
quelques fantomes qui, remontant du fond des deux abymes, 
surnagent un instant a lour surface, et s'y replongent pour 
jamais." 

" Four nous, amant solitaire de la nature, et simple confesseur 



NOTES. 41 

de la Divinite, nous nous sommes assis sur ces ruines. Voyageur 
sans renom, nous avons cause avec ces debris comme nous- 
ineine ignores. Les souvenirs confus des homines, et les vagues 
rovcries du desert, se rnelaient au fond de notre ame. La nuit 
etait an milieu de sa course ; tout ctait muet, et la lune, et les 
bois, et les tombeaux. Seulement, a longs intervallcs, on enten- 
dait la chute de quelque arbre, que la hache du temps abattait, 
dans la profondeur des forcts : ainsi tout tombe, tout s'aneantit." 

" Enfin, ces monumens prennent leurs racines dans des jours 
beaucoup plus recules que ceux ou Ton a decouvert l'Amcrique. 
Nous avons vu sur ces ruines un chene decrepit, qui avait 
pousse sur les debris d'un autre chene tombe a ses pieds, et 
dont il ne restait plus que l'ecorce ; celui-ci a son tour s'etait 
eleve sur un troisieme, et ce troisieme, sur un quatrieme. 
L'emplacement des deux derniers se marquait encore par l'in- 
tersection de deux cercles, d'un aubier rouge et petrifie, qu'on 
decouvrait a fleur de terre, en ecartant un epais humus com- 
pose de feuilles et de mousse. Accordez seulement trois siecles 
de vie a ces quatre chenes successifs, et voila une epoque de 
douze cents annees que la nature a gravee sur ces ruines." — 
Gdnie dti Christianisme, torn. t. pp. 212-215, 27C, 277. 

As to the nature of the serpent generally, and his taste for 
Music, in particular, this is the account of our author : 

" Notre siecle rejette avec hauteur tout ce qui tient de la 
merveille : sciences, arts, morale, religion, tout reste desen- 
chante. Le serpent a souvent ete l'objet de nos observations ; 
et, si nous osons le dire, nous avons cru reconnaitre en lui cet 
esprit pernicieux et cette subtilite que lui attribue 1'Ecriture. 
Tout est mysterieux, cache, etonnant dans cet incomprehensi- 
ble reptile. Ses mouvemens different de ceux de tous les autres 
animaux ; on ne saurait dire ou git le principe de son deplace- 
ment, car il n'a ni nageoires, ni pieds, ni ailes; et cependant il 
fuit comme une ombre, il s'evanouit magiquement, il reparait, 
disparait encore, semblable a une petite fumee d'azur, ou aux 
eclairs d'un glaive dans les tenebres. Tantot il se forme en 
cercle, et darde une langue de feu ; tantot, debout sur l'extre- 
mite de sa queue, il marche dans une attitude perpendiculaire, 



42 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 

comme par enchantement. II se jette en orbe, monte et s'abaisse 
en spirale, roule ses anneaux comme une onde, circule sur les 
branches des arbres, glisse sous l'herbe des prairies, ou sur la 
surface des eaux. Ses couleurs sont aussi peu determinees que 
sa marche ; elles changent a.tous les aspects de la lumiere, et, 
comme ses mouvemens, elles ont le faux brillant et les varietes 
trompeuses de la seduction. 

" Plus etonnant encore dans le reste de ses mceurs, il sait, 
ainsi qu'un homme souille de meurtre, jeter k l'ecart sa robe 
tachee de sang, dans la crainte d'etre reconnu. Par une etrange 
faculte il peut faire rentrer dans son sein les petits monstres que 
l'amour en a fait sortir. II sommeille des mois entiers, frequente 
des tombeaux, habite des lieux inconnus, compose des poisons 
qui glacent, brulent ou tachent le corps de sa victime des cou- 
leurs dont il est lui-meme marque. La, il love deux tetes mena- 
<;antes ; ici, il fait entendre une sonnette ; il siffle comme un 
aigle de montagne ; il mugit comme un taureau. II s'associe 
naturellement a toutes les idees morales ou religieuses,. comme 
par une suite de l'influence qu'il eut sur nos destinees : objet 
d'horreur ou d'adoration, les homines ont pour lui une haine im- 
placable, ou tombent devant son genie ; le mensonge l'appelle, 
la prudence le reclame, l'envie le porte dans son cceur, et l'elo- 
quence a son caducee ; aux enfers il arme les fouets des furies, 
au ciel l'eternite en fait son symbole ; il possede encore 1'art 
de seduire l'innocence ; ses regards enchantent les oiseaux dans 
les airs ; et, sous la fougere de la creche, la brebis lui abandonne 
son lait. Mais il se laisse lui-meme charmer par de doux sons ; 
et. pour le dompter, le berger n'a besoin que de sa flute. 

" Au mois de juillet 1791, nous voyagions dans le Haut- 
Canada, avec quelques families sauvages de la nation des Onon- 
tagues. Un jour que nous etions arretes dans une grahde plaine, 
au bord de la riviere Genesie, un serpent a sonnettes entra dans 
notre camp. II y avait parmi nous un Canadien qui jouait de 
la flute ; il voulut nous divertir, et s'avan^a contre le serpent, 
avec son arme d'une nouvelle espece. A l'approche de son 
ennemi, le superbe reptile se forme en spirale, aplatit sa tete, 
enfle ses joues, contracte ses levres, decouvre ses dents empoi- 



NOTES. 43 

sonnees et sa gueule sanglante : sa double languc brandit com- 
me deux flammes ; ses yeux charbons ardens ; son corps, gonfle 
de rage, s'abaisse et s'eleve comme les soufflets d'une forge ; sa 
peau, dilatee, devient terne et ecailleuse ; et sa queue, dont il 
sort un bruit sinistre, oscille avec tant de rapidite, qu'elle res- 
semble a une legcre vapeur. 

" Alors le Canadien commence a jouer sur sa flute; le serpent 
fait un mouvement de surprise, et retire la tete en arriere. A 
mesure qu'il est frappe de l'effet magique, ses yeux perdcnt leur 
aprete, les vibrations de sa queue se ralentissent, et le bruit qu'elle 
fait entendre, s'affaiblit et meurt peu a peu. Moins perpendicu- 
laires sur leur ligne spirale, les orbes du serpent charme, par de- 
gres s'elargissent,et viennent tour a tour se poser sur la lerre en 
cercles concentriques. Les nuances d'azur, de verd, de blanc et 
d'or reprennent leur eclat sur sa peau fremissante; et, tournant 
legerement la tete, il demeure immobile dans l'attitude de l'at- 
tention et du plaisir. 

" Dans ce moment le Canadien marche quelques pas, en tirant 
de sa flute des sons doux et monotones ; le reptile baisse son cou 
nuance, entr'ouvre avec sa tete les herbes fines, et se met a ram- 
per sur les traces du musicien qui l'entraine, s'arretant lorsqu'il 
s'arrete, et recommencant a le suivre, quand il recommence a 
s'eloigner. 11 fut ainsi conduit hors de notre camp, au milieu 
d'une foule de spectateurs, tant Sauvages qu'Europeens, qui en 
croyaient a peine leurs yeux, a cette merveille de la melodie ; il 
n'y eut qu'une seule voix dans l'assemblee, pour qu'on laissat le 
merveilleux serpent s'echapper." — Ibid., pp. 174-179. 



Note 1G. Page 21. 

" JYoiv, he recalls the lamentable tcail, 
That pierced the shades of Rama's palmy vale. 

See Matthew ii. 16-18. 



44 AIRS OF PALESTINE. 



Note 17. Page 28. 

" That Mighty Spirit once from Teman came : 
Clouds were his chariot, and his coursers flame." 

11 God came from Teman, and the Holy One from Mount 
Paran," &c. — See Habakk.uk iii. 3 - 17. 



Note 18. Page 28. 

'' Thou didst descend, and, rolling through the crowd, 
Jnshrine thine ark and altar in thy shroud, 
And fill the temple tcith thy mantling cloud." 

11 And it came to pass, when the priests were come out of the 
holy place, (for all the priests that were present were sanctified, 
and did not then wait by course : Also the Levites, which were 
the singers, all of them of Asaph, of Heman,of Jeduthun, with 
their sons and their brethren; being arrayed in white linen, hav- 
ing cymbals and psalteries, and harps, stood at the east end of 
the altar, and with them a hundred and twenty priests, sounding 
with trumpets :) It came even to pass, as the trumpeters and 
singers were as one, to make one sound to be heard in praising 
and thanking the Lord ; and when they lifted up their voice with 
the trumpets and cymbals and instruments of music, and praised 
the Lord, saying, — For he is good, for his mercy endureth for 
ever : that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house 
of the Lord ; so that the priests could not stand to minister by 
reason of the cloud ; for the glory of the Lord had filled the 
house of God.'' — 2 Chron. v. 11 - 14. 

Note 19. Page 30. 

This poem was written in the cause of Charity, and at her 
call, in the year 1816. It was intended, that the recitation of it 
should form a part of the performances of an evening concert of 
sacred music, for the benefit of the poor. 



NOTES. 45 

I would here remark, that the double rhymes, that occasionally 
occur in the poem, I have, in most instances, suffered to remain ; 
though they have been complained of, I believe, by the majority 
of critics, and perhaps by the majority of the public} while, on 
the ether hand, they have met the decided approbation of many, 
whose taste, in matters of this sort, is entitled to high considera- 
tion. They were admitted because I was aware how difficult even 
a good speaker finds it to recite the best heroic poetry, for any 
length of time, without perceiving in his hearers the somniferous 
effects of a regular cadence. The double rhyme was therefore 
occasionally thrown in, like a ledge of rocks in a smoothly glid- 
ing river, to break the current, which, without it, might appear 
sluggish, and to vary the melody, which might otherwise become 
monotonous. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS 



49 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 



This is a very pleasant sight, — 

The Moslems thronging to the square 
That lies before their house of prayer ! 
Through narrow streets, that lead away, 
Some to the plain, some to the bay, 
And others towards the castled height 
Where frowning walls and portals rent, 
Turret and towering battlement, 
Tell of Venetian power, — the work 
Is now neglected by the Turk, 
And flocks of quiet sheep are fed 
Within the walls where hosts have bled ; 
And fig-trees strike their roots between 
The stones that arched the magazine. — 
Through all these narrow streets, the throng, 
Long-robed and turbaned, move along, 
And, gathering round a marble fountain 

Whose columns, slight and writhed, and old, 
A Saracenic roof uphold, 
4 



50 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Airy and decked with paint and gold, 
They bathe, in water from the mountain, 
That, on all sides, from many a spout 
Upon the pavement gushes out, 
Their feet and arms, their beards and brows ; 
Then, to the Mosque these men of prayer,- 
There are no women with them there, — 
Proceed, to offer up their vows. 

Within the porch, without the door 
That opens to the " Mercy-seat," 

As if the words were whispered round, 
11 Put off thy shoes from off thy feet, 

Thou standest upon holy ground ! " 

They leave their slippers on the floor, 
And enter. — There, beneath a dome 
Less lofty than is that at Rome, 

Which, o'er a host of saints in stone, 
And virgins in mosaic, swells 

To cover one who, on a throne, 
Round which are clouds of incense curled, 

And organs pealed, and trumpets blown, 

And tides of vocal music poured, 

Sits, to adore, or be adored 
By more than half the Christian world, 

— And " plenary indulgence " sells, — 
Less lofty than is that, St. Peter, 

Lifted, they say, above thy bones, 

Certainly o'er thy form in bronze, 
That near the Baldacchino stands, — 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 51 

Where, having wiped and kissed its toes, 
(Jove's, whilom, as the story goes,*) 

I 've seen men kneel, and clasp their hands, 
And lift their eyes, with all the air 
Of men engaged in fervent prayer : — 
I say not that, while kneeling thus, 
Howe'er it may appear to us, 

They 're worshipping, — that, till they get up, 
That molten image they adore, 



* " Some christened Jove St. Peter's keys adorn." — Pope. 

For myself, notwithstanding the authority of this line of Pope, 
himself a Catholic, and in opposition to the popular opinion in 
Protestant countries, I do not believe that the statue in ques- 
tion is the same that once stood, as Jove, under the dome of 
the Pantheon. The right hand which, as Jove's, must have 
grasped a thunderbolt, cannot be the same that is now raised, 
with its finger set in the attitude of episcopal, archiepiscopal, 
or papal benediction; (my readers will, I hope, excuse my lack 
of exact knowledge, whether it be episcopal, archiepiscopal, or 
papal;) and the left hand, as well as the keys that it holds, is 
equally out of the question : — for what had Jove to do with 
keys, for letting people into Heaven, or keeping them out? 

But it is asked, Though the hands and arms are spurious, 
may not the rest of the statue be a genuine Jove ? I answer, 
I examined as closely as I could, " with all my eyes," and by 
the ring of the metal. I could detect no other junction of the 
parts than that which must have been made by the founder. 
I am, therefore, satisfied that this " molten image " never had 
any thing to do with Jove ; except, as may have been the case, 
an old Jove was melted down and recast. But I do not see 
that this should operate to the prejudice of St. Peter. 1 think 
the whole a piece of Protestant scandal. 



M tSCBLLANEOl 

Which o'er St. Peter's bones of yore 
The piety of popes hath Bel up : — 
Deeming it on this subject meeter, 
Since we *re not under his dominion, 

To let each form his own opinion. 

There, as 1 said, beneath a dome 
Less lofty than is that at Home, 
But fitter for a worship true, 

Since underneath its ample swell 

" No God but Cod n appears to dwell : — 

No "graven image' 1 oi' a saint. 

No martyr in his grated cell, 

Tortured by grinning imps oi' hell ; 
No demigod in stone or paint ; 
No virgin with her eyes oi' blue, 

And circlet o'er her auburn hair, 

Holding her baby in a chair; 
No prophet in a lion's den ; 
No loose-haired, prostrate Magdalen, 
With book and death's-head Lying by her. 

To tell how quenched is all the tire 

That raged, like hell's own flames, within her. 

While yet she walked the streets u a sinner 1 ' ;- 

No angels, soaring towards the dim 

And distant heavens ; — no cherubim 

With chubby checks and little wings. 

That smile as St. Cecilia sings ; 

No gilded pannel lifting high 
This picture to Devotion's eye, — 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 53 

Two young men, standing in a stream 
(Doubtless the Jordan's sacred bed), 
Of whom the junior seems to bow, 
Towards the clear wave, his thoughtful brow, 

From which a light appears to beam ; 

While, with a reverent air, the other, — 

You 'd take him for an elder brother, — 

Clasped u with a leathern girdle " stoops, 

And, with a shell, the water scoops, 
And pours it on his kinsman's head ; — 

And, o'er them both, a downward dove, 

Emblem of innocence and love, 

On silver wings is seen to hover 
In a strong gush of light, that breaks 

Forth from the mouth of one above her, 
Robed in a mantle of sky blue, 

Whose hoary locks, and beard down flowing, 
Look like a fall of feathery flakes, 

When, for the last time, it is snowing, 
As spring is coming on anew, 

And scarce a breath of wind is blowing. 

There worship they : — that total dearth 
Of likenesses of things that breathe 
In heaven above, or earth beneath, 

Or waters underneath the earth, 
Is witness for them, that they find 
A Spirit in those walls enshrined. 
As, underneath the dome of blue 
That holds the stars, but drops the dew, 



54 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And as, within the horizon's rim, 

We see God, and no God but him, 

So is it in the temple, where 

These Moslems bow themselves in prayer. 

But, lo ! by mounted horsemen led, 
The soldiery comes ! rank following rank, 
Dressed in the fashion of the Frank, 

Except that, on their shaven head, 

With tassel blue, the cap of red 
(Called, in these climes, the Grecian fez,) 

Shows that, in this part of the globe, 
Fashion, who has, for ages, kept her 

Turban untouched, and fur-fringed robe, 
Must vail hers to a stronger sceptre ; 

For that, howe'er she may protest, 

The court and army shall be dressed 
Exactly as the Sultan says. 

But not to worship moves this band, 
As in my own, a Christian land, 
The current towards the temple sets : — 
There, clattering scabbards charged with steel, 
Helmets and plumes and spur-armed heel, 
Muskets with bristling bayonets, 
Gleam in the ranks of those who call 
The Prince of life and peace their Lord, 
Who taught that they who take the sword 

For slaughter, by the sword shall fall. 
Yes ; they, whose only hope to inherit 
A crown of glory lies in this, 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 55 

That, having caught his peaceful spirit, 
They 're fitted to partake his bliss, 
When to their "chief" a guard they prove, 
And, marshalled, to the temple move, 
To worship Him whose name is Love, 
And to his praise to chant again 
The hymn that, at their Saviour's birth, 
Was sung by angels, — " Peace on earth ! 
Glory to God ! Good will to men ! " — 
Move in the spirit of the camp, 
To martial airs with martial tramp, 
And even into the " presence " come 
With bugle's blast and " tuck of drum." 

See, now, in what a different manner 
Come they before the King of kings, 
Whom, as they mount their Arab steeds 
For martial show, or martial deeds, 
The Sultan's broad, bright scarlet banner 
Waves over : — for, although the shade 
Of that red banner, — like the sun 
That burns above it, — falls upon 
Faces that never blanched with fear, 
And hands familiar with the spear 
And scimetar's elastic blade, — 
Warriors, like those, — (for in their sons 
Mahomed's blood and Omar's runs,) — 
Whose squadrons, by their Prophet led, 
Looked at the Crescent o'er their head, 
Gave and received the battle shock, 
And onward, like a torrent, poured, 



56 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Carrying the Koran on the sword, 
From Tigris's bank to Tarik's Rock, — 
Yet, when these servants of a lord, 
Whose faith was planted with the sword, 
Move to the place where prayer is made, 

They put their arms off, to a man, — 

Pistols and sword and yataghan, — 
And all the host, without parade, 
Flows on, with movement calm and grave, 
As does their own Cayster's wave. 
Move on, young men ! 't is not in vain 

That ye before Jehovah bow ; 
I never more shall see your train 

As I, with reverence, see it now ; 
But there is One who e'er will see, 

And to your prayer his ear will bend ; — 
The One who has been good to me 

Ye worship, and he is your Friend. 
I would, indeed, that ye could hear 

The Word our Holy Book enshrines ; 
I would, indeed, that ye could rear 

The Cross where now the Crescent shines ! 
But, till ye can, I will not close 

My eyes against the proofs I see 
That, in your hearts, the feeling glows 

Of reverence for the Deity. 
For, as I climb the hill that swells 

From this, your Smyrna's, blooming plain, 
And listen to the camels' bells, 

And see their slowly winding train, 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 57 

There seems a spirit in the air, 
Inviting me to thought and prayer. 

I look down on the cypress groves 

That darken o'er the crowded dead, 
And muse on all the hopes and loves 

Of those who there have made their bed, 
And ask myself if all that host, 

Whose turbaned marbles o'er them nod,* 
Were doomed, when giving up the ghost, 

To die as those who have no God ! 
No, no, my God ! They worshipped Thee ; 

Then let not doubts my spirit darken, 
That thou, who always hearest me, 

To these, thy children too, didst hearken. 

On Asia's ancient hills I tread ; 

There 's something in the air that 's holy. 
Here have my brethren made their bed, 

And soon my sleep will be as lowly. 



* No one who has seen, and mused by the side of, a Turkish 
burying-ground, like those of Smyrna, Constantinople, and Scu- 
tari, will charge me with using this word merely for the sake of 
the rhyme. The slender marble shaft, surmounted with a head 
heavily turbaned, often inclining over the grave that it marks, 
particularly when seen by moonlight, needs but little aid from 
the imagination to become a white-robed friend '• standing 
guard" over the dead, till, overcome by the drowsiness of the 
place, as well as by the length of his vigils, he seems about to 
fall, in a profound sleep, upon the bosom of the sleeper at his 
feet. 



58 MISCELLANEOUS. 

But hark ! what is that mellow call, 
That comes as from the bending sky, 

And o'er the listening city swells 

Sweeter than all our Christian bells, 
And seems upon the ear to fall 
Like angel voices from on high ? 

'T is the Muezzin's monotone, 
That, ere the stooping sun has set, 
Is heard from yon tall minaret 

Breaking out, solemn and alone, 
And dying on the quiet air, — 
" Lo, God is great ! To prayer ! To prayer ! " 

Is it thus holy, all around, 
Because the hill I stand upon, 

One of our earliest churches crowned, — 
The church of the Apostle John ? 

O no ! Where'er the people pray, 
Bowing upon their hills around, 

To Him who clothes those hills with day, 
There, there, for me, is holy ground ! 

Let me recall, — it is the last, — 

This grateful vision of the past. 

The Euxine's breath was fresh and cool, 

As down the Bosphorus it flowed ; 
I was returning to Stamboul, 

From our Charge 's retired abode. — 
The golden sun was not yet down, 

But in the west was hanging low, 

And gilding with a richer glow 
The Crescents of the distant town. 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 59 

Far, far without its triple wall, 

O'er which the mantling ivies fall, 
There stood forth a young Tactico * 
Before his hut ; and to the sky- 
Now calmly raising his dark eye, 
Now looking down, with both hands pressed 
Across each other on his breast, 
Now falling on his bended knees 
Before Him who in secret sees, 
Then bowing lowly towards the south, 
With both hands covering his mouth 
And resting on the fresh, green sod, 
Was offering, all alone, to God 
His sacrifice of evening prayer. — 
He knew not that I saw him there ; 
And never, never, have I seen, 

In Christian temple, high or low, 

A worshipper that moved me so 

As did that Turkish Tactico, 
Bowing beneath the arch of blue, — 

That, to refresh that sacred sod, 
Was just then dropping down its dew, — 
And offering on that altar green 

His evening sacrifice to God ! 

O thus, ye Moslems, bow for ever, 

And put the Christian world to shame ! 
But, brethren, brethren, will ye never 
Your practice from your faith dissever, 

Regular, i. e. one of the regular army. Gr. raxrixog. 



60 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And worship in another name ? 
Still let devotion's incense burn, 

And mingle with your dying breath, 
But from Arabia's Prophet turn, 

And look to Him of Nazareth ! 
"Whether within the gay kiosk 

Ye offer up your daily prayer, 
Or in the silence of the mosque, 

When, voiceless, ye are bowing there, 
Or in the hum of the bazaar, — 

Think not of your Apostle's urn, 

Nor yet to your Ca ba turn, 
But turn, O turn, towards Bethlehem's Star ! 

Long has your Crescent's light been waning ; 

'T is waning, and yet more must wane ; 
While that bright Star new strength is gaining, 

And must go on new strength to gain. 
turn, then, to its growing light ! 

The Moon nor rules nor ieads the day ; 
Her power is only felt at night, 

But fades before the morning's ray. 
Your faith, beneath the eye of Truth 

Must blench, and it 1 er touch will fail ; 
While ours must e'er renew her youth, 

As knowledge shall o'er earth prevail : — 
For earth, with its all-clasping seas, 

Is weighed by her anointed ones, 
And Science hath revealed to these 

The heavens with all their hosts of suns. 



MOSLEM WORSHIP. 61 

Then, from your Crescent's face so pale, 

Whene'er ye worship, turn away ; 
And, as ye see our Day-Star burn 
With broader splendor, to it turn ; 

And, kneeling in its radiance, say, 
" Hail ! rising Star of Bethlehem, hail ! " 



1837. 



62 



PASSING AWAY." — A DREAM. 



Was it the chime of a tiny bell, 

That came so sweet to my dreaming ear, — 
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell 

That he winds on the beach, so mellow and clear, 
When the winds and the waves lie together asleep, 
And the Moon and the Fairy are watching the deep, 
She dispensing her silvery light, 
And he, his notes as silvery quite, 
While the boatman listens and ships his oar, 
To catch the music that comes from the shore ? — 
Hark ! the notes, on my ear that play, 
Are set to words : — as they float, they say, 
" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

But no ; it was not a fairy's shell, 

Blown on the beach, so mellow and clear ; 
Nor was it the tongue of a silver bell, 
Striking the hour, that filled my ear, 
As I lay in my dream ; yet was it a chime 
That told of the flow of the stream of time. 



"PASSING AWAY." 63 

For a beautiful clock from the ceiling hung, 
And a plump little girl, for a pendulum, swung; 
(As you 've sometimes seen, in a little ring 
That hangs in his cage, a Canary bird swing ;) 
And she held to her bosom a budding bouquet, 
And, as she enjoyed it, she seemed to say, 

" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

O how bright were the wheels, that told 

Of the lapse of time, as they moved round slow ! 
And the hands, as they swept o'er the dial of gold, 
Seemed to point to the girl below. 
And lo ! she had changed : — in a few short hours 
Her bouquet had become a garland of flowers, 
That she held in her outstretched hands, and flung 
This way and that, as she, dancing, swung 
In the fulness of grace and of womanly pride, 
That told me she soon was to be a bride ; — 
Yet then, when expecting her happiest day, 
In the same sweet voice I heard her say, 

" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

While I gazed at that fair one's cheek, a shade 

Of thought, or care, stole softly over, 
Like that by a cloud in a summer's day made, 
Looking down on a field of blossoming clover. 
The rose yet lay on her cheek, but its flush 
Had something lost of its brilliant blush ; 
And the light in her eye, and the light on the wheels, 
That marched so calmly round above her, 



64 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Was a little dimmed, — as when Evening steals 
Upon Noon's hot face : — Yet one could n't but love 
her, 
For she looked like a mother whose first babe lay- 
Rocked on her breast, as she swung all day ; — 
And she seemed, in the same silver tone, to say, 
" Passing away ! passing away ! " 

While yet I looked, what a change there came ! 

Her eye was quenched, and her cheek was wan : 
Stooping and staffed was her withered frame, 
Yet, just as busily, swung she on ; 
The garland beneath her had fallen to dust ; 
The wheels above her were eaten with rust ; 
The hands, that over the dial swept, 
Grew crooked and tarnished, but on they kept, 
And still there came that silver tone 
From the shrivelled lips of the toothless crone, — 
(Let me never forget till my dying day 
The tone or the burden of her lay,) — 

" Passing away ! passing away ! " 



1837. 



65 



TO MY GRAVE. 



I look upon thee as a place of rest — 
To me, of welcome rest ; for I am tired ! 
I do not mean that I am tired of life, — 
Of seeing the good sun, and the green trees ; 
Of hearing the sad whisper of the pine 
That shades thee, as the summer's sun goes down, 
And shields thee, too, from winter's howling blasts. 
That whisper is too thoughtful and too sad 
To tire my spirit, for it is of peace. 
It is the very voice of the Lord God, 
That Adam heard walking among the trees 
Of his own garden, in the cool of day : 
And, as I hear it, I would not retire, 
Or hide myself from Him who soothes me thus. 
I am not tired of the sweet light that falls, 
My grave, upon thee in the smiling spring, 
Or in those sober days when autumn strews 
His rustling leaves so plentifully round ; 
Nor, of the light, still sweeter, that the moon 
Sheds from the holy sky, while, through its vault 
5 



QQ MISCELLANEOUS. 

She walks in queenly beauty. But I 'm tired 

Of the false smile, that lightens up the face 

Of hollow-hearted, cold, and selfish man; 

As moonlight glances from the treacherous ice 

That sheets yon river's bosom o'er, but breaks, 

Whene'er you trust its strength, and lets you in. 

I 'm tired of all the heartless show of love 

For whatsoever things are pure, or true, 

Or just, or lovely, or of good report, 

Whene'er these things are seen or thought to stand 

In Fashion's, or in sordid Mammon's way. 

No, I 'm not tired of life ; — nor am I tired 
Of duty, toil, or trial. From the cup 
My Father giveth, bitter though it be, 
O, let me never turn my lips away, 
Or, froward, lift my hand to push it from them. 
But I am tired of sowing where the thorns, — 
The cares and the deceitfulness of riches, — 
Not only choke the word and make it fruitless, 
But pierce my feet, — though I would humbly hope 
They 're with the Gospel's preparation shod, — 
And where there are rough hands to cut those thorns 
And twist them into withes around my temples, 
Or, like the Roman lictor's gory rods, 
Ply them to scourge me, bleeding, from the field, — 
The field where I, so many years, have borne 
The burden and the heat of my life's day ; 
And where it is " my heart's desire and prayer," 
That I may close my labors and my life. 



TO MY GRAVE. 67 

My grave ! I 've marked thee on this sunny slope, 
The warm, dry slope of Auburn's wood-crowned hill, 
That overlooks the Charles, and Roxbury's fields, 
That lie beyond it, as lay Canaan's green 
And smiling landscape beyond Jordan's flood, 
As seen by Moses. Standing by thy side, 
I see the distant city's domes and spires. 
There stands the church within whose lofty walls 
My voice for truth, and righteousness, and God, — 
But all too feebly, — has been lifted up 
For more than twenty years, but now shall soon 
Be lifted up no more. I chose this spot, 
And marked it for my grave, that, when my dust 
Shall be united to its kindred dust, 
They who have loved me, — should there any such 
E'er stand beside it and let fall a tear, — 
May see the temple where I toiled so long, 
And toiled, I fear, in vain. No, not in vain 
For all who 've come to offer, in that house, 
Their weekly sacrifice of praise and prayer ! 
For there are some, I humbly hope and trust, 
To whom my voice, in harmony with truth, 
Hath helped to make that house " the gate of heaven." 
May there be many such ! But, O my grave, 
When my cold dust is sleeping here, in thee, 
The question that shall most concern the spirit 
That shall have left that dust, and gone to give 
Its dread account in, at the bar of God, 
Will not be, " What success hath crowned thy labors ? " 
But, " With what faithfulness were they performed ? " 



68 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Here, as I muse beside my last, low bed, 
I think upon my answer. 

" Lord, thou knowest ! 
Man never knew me as thou knowest me. 
I never could reveal myself to man. 
For neither had I, while I lived, the power, 
To those who were the nearest to my heart 
To lay that heart all open, as it was, 
And as thou, Lord, hast seen it. Nor could they, 
Had every inmost feeling of my soul 
By seraphs' lips been uttered, e'er have had 
The ear to hear it, or the soul to feel. 
The world has seen the surface only of me : — 
Not that I 've striven to hide myself from men : — 
No, I have rather labored to be known : — 
But, when I would have spoken of my faith, 
My communings with thee, my heaven-ward hope, 
My love for thee and all that thou hast made, 
The perfect peace in which I looked on all 
Thy works of glorious beauty, — then it seemed 
That thou alone couldst understand me, Lord, 
And so my lips were sealed; — or the world's phrase, 
The courteous question or the frank reply, 
Alone escaped them. I have ne'er been known, 
My Father, but by thee : and I rejoice 
That thou, who mad'st me, art to be my Judge ; 
For, in thy judgments, thou rememberest mercy. 
I cast myself upon them. Like thy laws, 
They are all true and right. The law, that keeps 



TO MY GRAVE. 69 

This planet in her path around the sun, 

Keeps all her sister planets, too, in theirs, 

And all the other shining hosts of heaven. 

All worlds, all times, are under that one law ; 

For what binds one, binds all. So all thy sons 

And daughters, clothed in light, — hosts brighter far 

Than suns and planets, — spiritual hosts, 

Whose glory is their goodness, — have one law, 

The perfect law of love, to guide them through 

All worlds, all times. Thy Kingdom, Lord, is one. 

Life, death, earth, heaven, eternity, and time 

Lie all within it ; and what blesses now 

Must ever bless, — Love of things true and right. 

" Father, thou knowest whether, when thou saidst 
4 Go, feed my sheep,' I fed them with things true, 
And that, because I loved thy truth and them ; 
Or whether I kept back from them thy truth, 
And doled out falsehood, spiced with flattery, 
Because they loved and asked it ; and because 
Not for the flock I cared, but for the fleece. 

" ' Lord, thou hast searched and known me,' and to 
thee, 
With humble but unfaltering confidence, 
With faith that triumphed o'er the fear of death, 
And o'er its pains, — at thy most welcome call 
My spirit now hath come, with thine to dwell, 
And be for ever, as it long hath been, 
At one with thee. Father, I ask thee not 



70 MISCELLANEOUS. 

To make me ruler over many things, 

If, in a few, thou mayst have seen me faithful. 

To be at one with thee is all I ask ; 

'T is all the heaven my spirit can enjoy ; 

'T is all I 've prayed for, or can ever pray ; — 

Let me, beneath the covert of thy wing, 

Henceforth be shielded from the shafts, that pierced 

My spirit while I served thee in the flesh, — 

The arrows that were tipped with fire, and winged 

By men who knew me not, and could not know. 

' Father, forgive them ! ' for they thought the world 

Was made for Mammon's throne ; and that the man 

Who, at their call, stood up within thy courts 

To speak of things belonging to their peace, 

Must make the Gospel pliant to the form 

Of 'the law merchant'; — that the Prophet's roll, 

The Apostle's girdle, and the Saviour's vesture 

Must all be shaped to fit their golden god, 

Or else, as worthless shreds, be thrown aside. 

Forgive them, Father, for they did not know 

4 The glorious Gospel of the blessed God.' 

Thou mad'st it mine to preach that Gospel to them. 

Thou knowest whether faithfully I preached, 

And whether faithfully they heard, or not. 

Thou knowest all my weaknesses and theirs. , 

Judge thou between us ; but, in judgment, Lord, 

Remember mercy both to them and me ! " 

My grave, I 'm ready for thee. I would fain, 
Were it my Father's will, put by the cup, 



TO MY GRAVE. 71 

The bitter cup, of sharp or chronic pain, 

Or wasting sickness, — for that bitter cup 

The hand of God's most holy providence 

Hath oft commended to my feverish lips ; 

And deep, already, have I drunk of it. 

Fain would I, if I might, be spared the scene 

Of wife and children round my dying bed, 

Kneeling in prayer, or to my last poor words 

Bending with tearful eyes. And I would fain 

Banish the thought of shroud, of coffin-lid, 

Of cold hands folded on my breast, and of the chill 

That will strike through the frame of all who touch 

My marble forehead. I would banish, too, 

The thought, that I shall hear the funeral prayer, 

And see the funeral train when my remains 

Are hither borne. And I would gladly drive, 

Far and for ever from my heart, the thought, 

That, when the widow and the fatherless 

Return to their lone dwelling, they '11 be left 

To the world's charity, and all its trials, — 

(Almighty God ! they will be left to thee.) 

But, when all this is over, and the dust 

Hath with the dust commingled, as it was, 

And when the spirit hath returned to Him 

Who gave it, and who guarded it while here, 

And entered there into its heavenly rest, 

As it will enter ; — and when on thy turf, 

My grave, the sun shall pour his mellow light, 

And the stars drop their dew, and the full moon 

Look down serenely, and the summer birds 



fl) M iscri.i \ \ i:>>rs. 

Shall s'm:^ among the branches that o'erhang 
The stone thai bears my name, to tell whose grave 

Thou art ; — O then 1 shall no longer feel, 

As I now Peel, tired, tired, ami Bick at heart, 
Ami, by my very weariness, impelled 
To look with longing toward thee, ami to stand, 
As m>\\ I <\o stand over thee, ami say, 

w ] 'in ready to lio down in thee, mv grave! 11 

is to. 



73 



A SUNDAY NIGHT AT SKA. 



How sadly hath this Sabbath da} , 

God, been spenl by me, 
Cribbed close beneath a narrow deck, 

Washed by the frequent sea, 
An adverse wind careering o'er me 

Prom those eastern clouds, 
And complaining as its shivering wings 

Sweep through my roaring shrouds ! 

This humble deck, so near to which 

My rocking eoueh is spread, 
Thai I strike il if incautiously 

1 lid my throbbing head, 

Math all day told, and tells me still, 

( )f falling sleel and pain, 
While I have lain alone beneath, 

In weariness and pain. 



74 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Nay, not " alone " ; for, though no voice 

Of wife or children dear, 
Or friend, or fellow worshipper, 

Hath fallen upon my ear, 
Hast thou not, even here, O God, 

Thy face and favor shown ? 
Then, how have I been desolate, 

Or how am I alone ? 

And, while the wind hath roared above, 

And tossed the raging sea, 
Have not my silent orisons, 

My God, gone up to thee ? 
To thee, who sittest on the flood, 

And ridest on the storm, 
And biddest every wind that blows 

Some work of love perform. 

And though the winds have tossed, and though 

The waves have washed, my deck, 
It hath not by their weight been sunk, 

Or driven ashore a wreck ; 
For, though thou hast not hushed the blast, 

Nor bid its fury cease, 
Thou 'st brought me up and sheltered me 

Behind the hills of Greece. 

It was not, my Preserver, thus 
The lines were made to fall, 



A SUNDAY NIGHT AT SEA. 75 

111 this same season,* these same seas, 

Unto thy servant Paul, 
Who, by this same Euroclydon, 

Was driven till he, at last, 
On Malta's rock, from which I 've come, 

A shivering wreck, was cast. 

Then let me murmur not, that I 

This livelong day have lain 
In weakness and in weariness, 

In loneliness and pain ; 
But rather, when 1 think of Paul, 

Thy mercy let me bless, 
That, though I 've served thee less than lie, 

I 've also suffered less. 

Yet wilt thou not forgive me, Lord, 

If, on this holy day, 
I think of those I love, and think 

How far they are away; 
And if that house of thine, where I 

Have served thee many a year, 
That pleasant house, should claim from me 

The tribute of a tear ? 

Within its walls, even now, though Night 
O'er me hath spread her wing, 

* St. Paul's day, that is, the day of his shipwreck, is fixed ; 
and i witnessed the celebration of it in Malta, on the 10th inst. 



"?(> MISCELLANEOUS. 

1 see my Wends, my family, 

My flock, all worshipping ; 
For, between the pastor and his flock, 

The foamy crests are curled, 
That whiten o'er the waters of 

A quarter of the world.* 

Ami if he lifts to thee l»is eyes, 

Willi tears ami darkness dim. 

Ami asks if, in their prayers, Ins friends, 
1 lis tlock remember him. 

Let not the thought of self, that thus 

Intrudes upon their prayers, 

Be sot down as a sin, (Jod, 
In thy sight or in thoirs ! 

That holy house, where 1 have stood. 

And where these hands o( mine, 
Si> many years, have ministered 

The monthly bread and wine. 
That '^\o show forth" the Saviour's love 

Ami bring to mind tin 1 debt 
Of those he hath redeemed from sin, 

— Tan I that house forget ? 



v The 93 degreei of longitude, thai lie between Cape Mat* 

pan Uld Boston, make a difference, in time, Of about (">.} hours ; 
so that, whili' (hose thoughts are passing through my uiiiul, " iu 

uiv meditations upon my hod," between and 10 o'clock :it 
night, my people ate in the midst <^' their afternoon ■ervioe. 



\ BUND A? mc II T IT BE A. 77 

Forgel those little children, too, 

" Whose angels do behold 
Their Father's face,' 1 whose names, on earth, 

Arc with thy church enrolled, 
And on whose brows, unfurrowed yet 

By time, or care, or sin, 
The water I have thrown, thai speaks 

Of purity within ? 

Forgel the dead ! — forgel the dead ! 

Whni witness do they hear 
Of my influence on their spirits, that 

Are now beyond my care . : 
That I have spoken faithfully ? 

Or thai I, through fear, was dumb 
** Of righteousness, and temperance, 

And of the world to come " ? 

The dead ! What witness, O my soul, 

In their abodes of bliss, 
Or from their seats of woe, nuist they 
1 lave borne of me, in this ? 

And they who 're yet alive, what will, 
What OUghl lo be, the amount 

Of their report, when, in their turn, 
They go to give accounl ? 

Can I forget the mourning ones, 

Who 'vc brought their load of grief, 
And, at thine altar laid it down, 

And found in prayer relief; 



78 m isc ELL \ N EBOUi. 

Forget the needy, who their wants 
I [ave there before thee spread ? 

Or tli«- liberal hand thai there hath given 
The poor their dailj bread ? 

Forget the young, who, having Laid 
Their parents in the dust, 

Came Up, in One who cannot die, 
To learn to place their trust ? 

Forget the hoary-headed cues, 

Who \e bent their feeble knees. 

With me so long in prayer? — O God, 
Can 1 forget all these ? 

And, when I do remember all 

Whose worship I have led, 
How can 1 hut indulge the hope, 

When taken iVoni their head, 
That they whoso kindness in my heart 

Will ever be enshrined, 
When they have hewed before the Lord, 

Have home me in their mind ? 

And how am 1 remembered, then ? — 

As a watchman, loving sleep? 
As a shepherd, who hath sought his case, 

And cared not for the sheep ? 
Or as one who, aware thai bis time was short, 

That his day would soon be o'er. 



ash \ DA v N [G H T at BE A. 

With more of zeal than of wisdom wrought, 
Till he couW wotrk do more ? 

Shall 1, then, "work no more**? — or wilt 
Thou bring me back at length, 

To servo thee in thy COUrtB again, 

Willi renovated strength ? 
And, when the people of my care 

Within those courts I meet, 
Will the same faces welcome me, 

The same kind voices creel ? 



o* 



No : there arc eyes that rolled in light, 
When I launched upon the wave, 

And that, before I can return, 
Will have closed in the sloop of the grave: 

And are there not those which Cell on mi' then, 

With ;i warm and ;i friendly ray, 
And which, when they see me again, will turn 
With an icy glare away ? 

() Father, l>y thy chastening hand, 

That now is laid on mo, 
In weakness and in Wandering 

Upon this wintry sea ; 
In absence from thy holy house, 

To which I loved to go, 
And from my home, my<happy home, 

And them who make it so, — 



80 MISCELLANEOUS. 

By all this discipline of thine, — 

All which, I know, is just, — 
Shall I be made a wiser man, 

And worthier of my trust 1 
An answer, O my guardian God, 

Thy wisdom will prepare ; 
And what thy wisdom shall appoint, 

It will be mine to bear. 

M sea, " lying to," behind 

Cape MatajHiii, 14 Fcbrntinj, 183G. 



81 



RUINS AT PiESTUM. 



Call ye these " ruins " ? What is ruined here ? 

What fallen shaft, — what broken capital, — 

What architraves or friezes, scattered round, — 

What leaning walls, with ivy overrun, 

Or forced asunder by the roots of trees, 

That have struck through them, tell you here was once 

A finished temple, — now o'erthrown by time ? 

Seems it not, rather, a majestic fane, 
Now going up, in honor of some god, 
Whose greatness or whose beauty had impressed 
The builder's soul with reverence profound 
And an entire devotion ? It is true, 
No tools of architects are seen around, 
Compass, or square, or plummet with its line ; 
Else, one might argue that the artisans 
Had gone to dinner, and would soon return, 
To carry on the work they had begun, 
And, thus far, done so well. Yet, long ago, 
The laborers who hewed these massy blocks, 
6 



82 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And laid them where they lie ; who grooved these shafts 

To such a depth, and with such perfect truth, 

Were called off from their work ; not called, indeed, 

With sweating brow, to eat their daily bread ; 

But to lie down in the long sleep of death, 

To rest from all their labors, and to mix 

Their own dust with the dust that autumn's blasts 

Or summer's whirlwind drives across this plain, 

And through these voiceless temples, that now stand, 

Their only, their mysterious monument. 

Mysterious ? Ay ; for, if ye ask what age 
Beheld these temples rise, or in what tongue 
The service was performed, or to what god 
This fane or that was dedicate, no name, 
Inscribed along the architrave, records 
By whom, or to whom, wherefore built, or when. 
And, if ye ask the Muse of History, 
" Non mi ricordo" is her sole reply. 
Tradition, too, that prates of all things else, 
Is silent as to this. One only ray 
Shoots through the darkness that broods o'er these fanes ; 
But that is not more worthy of our trust, 
Than is the ignis fatuus that, at times, 
Swims doubtfully by night across this plain, - 
Seeking, not finding rest. It is the ray 
Thrown from the lamp of Logic, reasoning thus : 
She has been told that Pcestum's ancient name 
Was Posidonia. She has also learned 
That, by the Greeks, old Neptune, ocean's god, 



RUINS AT P^ESTUM. 83 

Was called Poseidon. " Ergo," says the dame, 
Who, from slight data, draws conclusions grave, 
" Psestum was Neptune's city ; and the fane 
That, in its grandeur and magnificence, 
Excels the rest, must have been Neptune's temple." 
But wherefore Neptune's ? Standing on this plain, 
That stretches seaward for a league or more, 
These massy columns never could have seen 
Themselves reflected from the glassy wave, 
When it lay sleeping on the nearest shore ; 
Nor could the surge, when lifted by the storm, 
Have ever fallen, and bathed their feet in foam. 
Nor could old ocean's monarch, while he dwelt 
Within his own domains, have e'er beheld 
The votive gifts suspended on these walls, 
Or heard the prayers or praises offered here ; 
Unless, indeed, the zealous worshipper 
Had, with a trumpet, called upon his god, 
And spoken in thunders louder than his own ; 
Or, — which is far from probable, — unless 
The god had taken a carriage at the beach, 
And been set down here at his own expense, 
Whene'er he wished to show his peaceful head * 
To those who bowed in worship at his shrine. 

I 've seen seven columns, standing now at Corinth, 
On five of which, — for two bear nothing up, — 
Some portion of the entablature remains ; 
And that old ruin the same style displays 

* " Placidurn caput."— Virg. JEn. 1. 127. 



84 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Of severe Doric beauty, that prevails 

In these grave works of hoar antiquity. 

But to what god rose the Corinthian fane, 

Or when, or by what architect, 't was reared, 

How much below the time of Sisyphus, 

Who laid the corner-stone of Corinth's state, 

How much above the era of Timoleon, 

Whom that proud state commissioned to dethrone 

The tyrant Dionysius, and convey 

A Grecian colony to Syracuse, — 

'T is all unknown. The ruins there, and here, 

Of the same genius speak, and the same age ; 

And in the same oblivion both have slept 

For more than two millenniums. Roman bards * 

Have of the rosaries of Psestum sung, 

Twice blooming in a year. And he who first 

Held in his hands the empire of the world, — 

Augustus Cresar, — visited this spot, 

As I do now, to muse among these columns, 

Of times whose works remain, whose history 's lost. 

And yet the palace of that same Augustus, 
Built, as you know, upon the Palatine, 
Willi all that Rome could do to hold it up 
Beneath the pressure of the hand of Time,' 
Is now all swept away, even to the floor. 
This little piece of marble, jaune antique, — 
Which now I use, to keep these Sibyl leaves 

* " Biferique rosaria Pa?sli." — Vi/Fg. Gcorg. IV. 119. 
" Tepidique rosaria Peesti." — Ovid. Met. XV. 708. 



RUINS at r.r.sru M . 85 

(As she of Cumffl cared not to keep here) K 
From floating off, on every wind that blows, 
Before the printer gives them leave to fly, — 

Once formed a part of that same palace floor. 
Among the weeds and hushes thai o'erhang 

The giant arches thai the door sustained, 

I picked it up. Those arches, and the mass 

Of bricks beneath them, and the floor above, 

And hushes ;is aforesaid hanging o'er, 

And, with their roots, helping the elements 

To pry apart what Roman masons joined, 

And fit the lower creature for the use 

Of the superior, — converting thus 

Things inorganic, mortar, bricks, and stones, 

To soil, that it may feed organic life, 

Grass, flowers, and trees, that they, in turn, may serve 

As food for animals, and they for man, 

According to the eternal laws of God, — 

Are all, of Ca'sar's palace, that remains. 

But of this solemn temple, not a shaft 
Hath fallen, nor yet an architrave or frieze, 
Tri glyph or metope. Dissolution's work, 
The work of frost and moisture, cold and heat, 
Mas not, on this old sanctuary, begun. 
The suns and rains of ages seem not yet, 
On any one of all these ponderous stones, 
To have given root to the minutest plant. 

* " Nee rcvocare situs, aut jungere earmina curat." — Virg. 
•En. III. 451. 



B6 B1I80ELL \ N BOUB. 

No! even :i lichen or a moss has dared 
To ii\ itself and flourish on these dry 
And everlasting blocks o( travertine. 
The sim has only touched them with b tinge 
Of his own gold. Ami, as I s'n between 
These columns, and observe how gently fall 
His beams upon them, and how soft and calm 
The air is, as it sloops upon their sides, 

(Even now, though 't is a January day,") 

How gingerly that quick-eyed lizard runs, 

In the warm sunshine, up and down their grooves, 
]t seems as if the very heavens and earth, 

With all the elements and creeping things, 
Had formed a league to keep eternal silence 

Within, above, and all around this pile. 

To see how many ages more 't would stand. 

Methinks, even now, as the soft wind Hows through 

These coble colonnades, as through the strings 

Ol' an Kolian harp, I hear a low 
And solemn voice, — it is the temple's voice, — 
Though in what language it addresses me, 
(.".reek, Latin, or Italian, it were hard 

For Mezzofanti or the Polyglot, 

Withoul a idose attention, to decide ; 

For, since this temple pyenostyle hath stood, 

It hath been exercised in many a tongue ; 

And to my ear it says, or seems to say : 

14 Stranger, 1 know as little o( the world 
From Which thou confst, as thou dost of the time 



ttUINfl AT r.i'.s'i'r m. 87 

From which I came ; 't is only yesterday 
To me, thai ii was known there was a world 
Wesl of the promontories thou 'si heard called 
The 'Pillars' of my old friend Hercules. 

I was BO young, when I was first sot up, 

That I 've forgotten who my builders were, 

Or to what god my altars wciv devoted ; 

Else would I loll thee; lor, 1 know the Muse 
Would, through the linos which thou wilt write of me, 
Preserve the knowledge t<> all future time! 
Hut Hercules, — the friend of whom I \e spoken, — 
I well remember, and for ever shall : 

For, once he sat where thou art silling qqW. 

It was, I think, when lie was on his way 

From Thebes far westward, when he went to help 

Atlas, his father-in-law, hold up the heavens. 

I told him, then, that if he 'd bring them here, 
And lay them on my shoulders, I M uphold 
The whole of them to all eternity. 

"Excuse what, to thy cold and western ear, 
May savour, somewhat, of hyperbole ! 

But, friend, it is the privilege of age 

To he laudator ac/i /cm/ioris. 

And, long since then, 1 \e heard events, unmoved, 

Which shook all Italy with their report, 

And, ever since, have echoed round the globe. 

For, 1 was quite in years, when Hannibal 

Came down the Alps, and at the river Tiein, 
Which, on thy journey home ward, thou shah cross, 
1 erthrcw the Romans under Scipio : 



88 MISCELLANEOUS. 

When, after that, by Thrasymene's lake, — 
(Thou canst not have forgotten the nice fish 
Thou at'st, one night, upon the same lake's shore, 
Or how, like the good wife of Abraham, 
Thy pretty hostess laughed, in unbelief, 
When, in the papers of the Pope's police, 
Thou didst report thyself ' a clerkly man,' 
Because thou worest not a monkish garb!) — 
The Roman legions, that Flaminius led, 
Were, by the Carthaginian, overthrown, 
In such a desperate, all-engrossing shock, 
That even an earthquake walked unnoticed by ! 
And when, still later, the same African 
Sent forty thousand Romans to the shades, 
And their gold rings, by bushels, o'er to Carthage, 
From yonder field of Cannae ; the small stream, 
Bridged by the bodies of the Roman dead, 
Is still called 'Sanguinetto,' — Bloody Brook ; 
(Thou hast one, I 've been told, in thine own land.) 
When all these empire-shaking shocks were felt, 
I heard them all, and heard them all unmoved. 

" But later still, when, had the conqueror gone 
With nothing but the panic of his name, 
And said, in thunder, to the gates of Rome,, 
'Lift up your heads, Eternal City's gates, 
And let the Conqueror of Rome come in ! ' 
Those gates would have swung open, — O, when I 
Then saw those Africans sink down and doze 
On the soft bosom of Parthenope ; 
When they who scaled the Alps, and stemmed the Po, 



RUINS AT PjESTUM. 89 

(A very muddy river that, you '11 find,) 

And stood against the arms of Rome's best men, 

Within the arms of Capua's worst women 

Fell, as fell Samson in Delilah's lap ; 

Then ivas I moved, indeed ; yea, deeply moved, 

At the same time with gladness and with grief, 

For though for Rome I smiled, I wept for man ! 

" Stranger, beware ! for still Parthenope, 
From whose bewitching smile thou hast withdrawn, 
To visit these drear solitudes, and muse 
For a few hours among my colonnades, 
Spreads all the snares that were by Capua spread, 
The indolent and thoughtless to destroy. 
But ' sapienti verbum sat ! ' Thou goest, 
And I no more shall see thee ; but I pray, 
(I see thou takest pleasure in my stones !) 
Spare me, as Time hath spared ; though I am sure 
I owe him little thanks ; for I have felt 
The hackings of his scythe, (now somewhat dulled, 
Thou 'It guess, — thou sayest thou art from Yankee land,) 
For some few thousand years ; and I leave thee 
To judge which hath the better of the game : 
So, lift nor hand, nor hammer, I entreat, 
To break a fragment, as ' a specimen ' 
Of the strange, hard, but spongy-looking stone 
That the Silaro, (which from yonder hills 
Thou seest flowing to Salerno's gulf,) 
Turns all things into, that it falls upon : 
I 've heard the same thing of Medusa's eyes ! 
O, treat me not as did the plundering Pict 



90 MISCELLANEOUS. 

My fair young sister, hight ' the Parthenon,' 
Whom thou shalt see, and seeing shalt deplore, 
When thou shalt visit the Acropolis. 
Yea, spare me, friend, and spare me, all ye gods, 
From virtuosi, earthquakes, Elgins spare, 
And let me have my tussle out with Time ! " 



91 



A BIRTHDAY IN SCIO. 



I landed there on the day of my birth, — 
The day that the city was swept from the earth ; 
Though thirteen years had floated away 
On the stream of time since that bloody day. 

There had been a strong southeaster blowing, 

The night before and afternoon ; 
And the clouds, as night came on, were throwing 

So much of mystery round the moon, 
That, — what above, and what below, — 

Things looked so squally, all on board 

Concurred in thinking Captain Ford 
Spoke wisely, when he said, " No, no ; 

I shall put in, and try to keep 
Where the ladies, who 1 re aboard, may sleep.'" 

So I 'd slept on board, the night before, 

In the snug little port ; while, round the isle, 
The breakers thundered on the shore, 
Like a line of sea-dogs, chafed and hoar, 
Bounding and barking for many a mile. 



92 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yet, though, "outside," those dogs might prowl, 

We lay where the wave was " calm as a clock" ; 
And, though afar off we could hear the dogs howl, 
And sometimes their nearer and hoarser growl, 
I could sleep, and I did sleep, " like a rock." 

But morning came ! — an April morn ; 

And, though the winds were felt no more, 
The waters still were landward borne, 

And still the waves came combing o'er, 

And fringed with foam the eastern shore ; 
And there rolled along so heavy a swell, 

Between the Island and Tshesme, 
That the captain thought he might as well 

Not venture round Phancc Point, that day. 

O, how I blessed the restless deep, 
That it sunk not with the winds to sleep ! 
For it gave me a day on Scio's isle, — 

A day that I shall not soon forget ; 
For the earth's sweet face, and the blue heaven's smile, 
And the sea that glittered all round, the while, 

As I then beheld them, haunt me yet. 

Well, we 're ashore ! Here hath Oppression's rod 
Wrought its worst work, where the good hand of God 
Seems to have wrought its fairest and its best. 
That guardian mountain,* towering in the west, — 

* Mount Opus, a little to the northwest of the city ; — I should 
guess about 4000 feet high. 



A BIRTHDAY IN S C IO . 93 

His fertile flanks, — the plains that stretch away, 
East and southeast, — all basking in the ray 
Of such a sun ! How could there ever be 
A lovelier island lifted from the sea ! 
Yet here hath Ruin driven her ploughshare deep ! 
Few here survive, the many slain to weep, 
And few now wander, lonely, on this shore, 
Their captive sons and daughters to deplore.* 

These magazines, — once glutted with the stores 
Of what the Euxine down the Bosphorus pours, — 
Of Brusa's silks, — of stuffs from Angora's looms, 
Of all the colors of the peacock's plumes, — 
Of cotton goods from Europe's Island Queen, — 
Of Samian wine, — of oil from Mitylene, — 
Of corn, that from the coast of Barbary comes, — 
Of dates from Egypt, and Arabian gums, — 
All empty now, lie open to the sky : 
Nothing to sell here, and no one to buy ! 

" Paithiske,f (damsel,) canst thou tell me where 
The College stood ? " She answers, with the air 

* It is estimated, that, of the 80,000 inhabitants of Scio, 20.000 
were butchered on the spot, or hung up on the yard-arms of the 
Turkish fleet, either lying off the island, or when the fleet, on 
its return, came in sight of Constantinople ; that 20,000 were 
carried into captivity, — chiefly the handsomest women and 
boys; that 15,000 escaped to some of the neighbouring islands. 
The rest sought shelter in the mountain fastnesses. 

\ Uaid foxy fiag ! " iVly little girl!" — Modern Greek. For 
the benefit of learners, both inside and outside of the college 



94 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Of one who feels unequal to the task, 
" Ohe," * (I cannot,) " but I '11 run and ask." 
And back she comes with knowledge in her eye, 
And leads me round, through places wet and dry, — 
O'er heaps of brick, one clambers up with pain, 
Round open cellars partly filled with rain, — 
Until, at last, " Etho ! " t ('T was here !) she cries ; 
And joy and wonder sparkle in her eyes, 
As, with the true Greek appetite for gains, 
She pockets a piastre for her pains. 

And is this formless mass of prostrate walls 
All that remains of Scio's college halls ? 
Those halls to which the children of the isles, 
For Panayea'sif and Minerva's smiles, 
Thronged, till their spreading light, like kindling morn, 
Flashed on the waters of the Golden Horn, 
And broke the slumbers of Mahmoud's Divan ? 
Yes, this is all ! and the wayfaring man 
Who, after thirteen years, would see the spot, 
Finds, it was never known, or is forgot ; 

walls, I would remark, that, wherever the Greek is a sjwhen 
language, the d is sounded precisely like th in this, As for 
teachers, tutors, professors, &c., they will go on giving this let- 
ter the force of the English d. The case with them, I fear, is 
hopeless ; for how much better is the old way than the right 
way ! 

* "Oxi, No ; x l^e h in house. 1 '£&•'>, ITcre. 

$ nctrayla, Ail Holy; pronounced Panatjda. The modern 
Greek appellation of the Virgin Mary. 



A BIRTHDAY IN SCIO. 95 

While every peasant, who is not a fool. 
Will lead me, if I wish, to Homer's school.* 

I mount a mule, and to the country ride. 
High walls confine the road on cither side ; 
Mile after mile presents the same sad scene, 
Of princely seats, with orange groves between ; 
Mansions of merchant princes, that once vied 
With those of Venice, both in grace and pride ; 
But now those mansions speak of Moslem ire. 
Roofless and winclowless, they show that fire 
Here had its perfect work. The walls yet stand, 
And seem to whisper, " Lend us, friend, a hand ! " 
Ay, had a Yankee, — had even I, — this " place," 
How soon I M make it wear another face ! 
New floored, new roofed, and thoroughly new glazed, 
The battered court-yard gate and fences raised, 
The garden dressed, all trimmed the mastic trees, 
I, in my palace hall, might sit at ease, 
And see a paradise around me bloom ; 
And, as the fragrant night-breeze filled my room, 
Flowing through open casements ; and the moon 
Silvered the scene around me ; or, at noon, 
As in an hour like this, in blooming spring, 
I heard my marble fountain murmuring, 
And saw my noble orange groves unfold 
Their snowy blossoms and their fruit of gold, — 
Say, " For this palace must I thank thec, War ! " 
Well, — I may have it for the asking for! 

* The locality of this is pointed out with great confidence by 
the Sciotes. 



j)(J BIIBG E i.i. \ N B01 B. 

But, would 1 take it ? When 1 turn my eye 
Where von Mount Opua swells into the sky. 
Those dirt's that look down on the plains below, 
Ring with the answer, — " Wouldsl thou take it ? — No! 

For • come m> hither ! ' — we can tell 
A tale to freeze a Western freeman's blood ; — 

When, from our height, we saw the swell, 
And heard the rush, o( war's infernal flood 
Through all thai city's bleeding lanes, 

OYr all the villas oi' those blooming plains j 
Wo opened, then, our ilrns ami raves 

To the poor peasants. Behold, her* , their graves ! 

The licet of loot to these, our ea\erns, sped ; 

To these our heights ami cavern-depths, alike, 
The hell-hounds followed where the blood-hounds led, — 

The brutes to mangle, ami the fiends to strike ! 
We trembled then, at the deep death-note 
Pealed from the panting bull-dog's throat,— 

The flash, — the eeho anil the smoke, — 
The veil, — the stab, — the sabre stroke, — 
The musket shot, — the frenzied shriek, — 
The death-groan of the hunted Greek, — 
Till our white feet with streams of gore were dyed, 
And mangled limbs were BtTOWn on every side, — 
With many a skull by Turkish sabre cleft J , 
Our vultures finished what their blood-hounds left ! 
The arm that, thirteen years ago. 

Bathed, elbow-deep, in Sciote blood, 

Still sways, o'er us ami all below. 
The iron seeptre o( Mahmoud ! 



A in RTH i> \ v i N BOIO. 97 

And would'st thou, stranger, — were all free, — 
Take any villa thou canst sec, 

To dwell therein ? Beware ! Beware ! 
The sword hangs o'er thee by a hair!" 

Fair Scio ! as I pass along thy shore, 
Through waters thai the brave Kanaris bore, 
Where, at one blow, thou wasl avenged so well, 
And where the Butcher of thy children fell ; 
Ere yet I lose thee in the deepening blue, 
So lone, so lovely, art thou to my view, — 
(For nothing lonelier lies beneath the sun, 
And nothing lovelier doth he look upon !) 
I pray thee, listen to a parting strain, 
From one who ne'er shall look on thee again : 

FAREWELL to thee, Scio! it is but a day 

That I 've se.n thee, and yet I shall love thee for ever. 
Thy children are slain, and thy crown torn away,* 

And thy jewels and gold shall return to thee never. 

Thou sittest, no longer, a queen in thy bower, 

But a widow, — of sons and of daughters bereft; 

Yet despair not, thou desolate one ! for thy dower, 
Lovely Scio, — thy lands and thy beauty, — is left. 

* Since the destruction of Scio, its commerce, which was the 

chief source of its wealth, li.is lieen almost entirely transferred 

to the small Greek island, Syra. 



98 MISCELLANEOUS, 

And though Syra, thy proud "little sister," awhile 
Thy pearls round her bold little forehead K may twine, 

Yet, envy her not, for she hath not a smile, 
Nor hath she a face, or a bosom, like thine. 

And, as soon as the sceptre of Islam is broken, 

Or Mahmoud, the red-handed Padischa,t dead, 
The word shall thou hear, that thy Maker hath spoken ; 
"Thoushalt put on thy garments, and lift up thy head. 11 

And vine-leaves and roses thy temples shall deck, 
And some of thy children shall cling to thy breast, 

While some pluck the clusters that hang round thy neck, 
And — thy lap-full of oranges feed all the rest! 

* The port, that is, the commercial city, of Syra, is built upon 
a hill, that swells up boldly from the water; and many of the 
houses, as they rise ampitheatrically, make quite an imposing 
appearance. 

t "Pmlisrha," jfngUct " Man-killer," one of the titles of the 
present Soullan, and the one by which, it is said, lie is particu- 
larly pleaaed to be addressed. 



OCCASIONAL POEMS. 



I. 

II YMNS 



FOR 



THE LORD'S SU IT E R 



OlllUSTMAS. 



103 



HYMNS FOR COMMUNION. 
I. 

"Break ye the bread, and pour the wine, 
As ye have seen your Master do ; 

This body and this blood of mine 
Is broken thus and shed for you." 

Yes, mighty God ! while life remains, 
We will remember him who bled ; 

Whom Death, in his cold, palsying chains, 
A captive and a victim led. 

We will remember him, by whom 

Those strong and icy chains were riven ; 

Who scattered round his opening tomb 
Their broken links, — and rose to heaven. 

And, while with gratitude we dwell 
On all his tears of love and woe, 

Let death's chill tide before us swell ! 
Let its still waters darkly flow ! 



104 OCCASIONAL. 

We '11 give our bodies to the stream ; 

'T will bear us — (for the dead shall rise, 
Or faith is vain, and hope a dream,) — 

To happier shores and brighter skies. 



II, 



" And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the 
Mount of Olives." — Matth. xxvi. 30. 



The winds are hushed ; — the peaceful moon 

Looks down on Zion's hill ; 
The city sleeps ; 't is night's calm noon ; 

And all the streets are still. 

Save when, along the shaded walks, 

We hear the watchman's call, 
Or the guard's footstep, as he stalks 

In moonlight on the wall. 

How soft, how holy, is this light! 

And hark ! a mournful song, 
As gentle as these dews of night, 

Floats on the air along. 

Affection's wish, devotion's prayer, 

Are in that holy strain ; 
'T is resignation, — not despair ; 

'T is triumph, — though 't is pain. 



HYMNS FOR COMMUNION. 105 

'T is Jesus and his faithful few, 

That pour that hymn of love ; 
God ! may we the song renew 

Around thy board above. 



III. 



" O my Father, if it be possible, let this cup pass from me 
nevertheless, not as I will, but as thou wilt." — Malth. xxvi. 39. 

"If it may be, O let this cup, 
Pass by me," — prayed the Son ; 

"But, if I 'm doomed to drink it up, 
Father ! thy will be done." 

He drank it. Bleeding on the tree, 

He faintly cried, " I thirst." 
Then rose his heart, O God, to thee, 

In fervent prayer, — and burst. 

That broken heart, that ebbing tide, 

That spirit so resigned, 
These emblems of the Crucified, 

Have now recalled to mind. 

For others as our Saviour bled, 

So we, at duty's call, 
For others in his steps should tread, 

And sacrifice our all. 



106 OCCASIONAL. 

Shall we from scenes of trial shrink, 
Now our Example lives ? 

Or shall we all with patience drink 
The cup our Father gives ? 



IV. 

O'er Kedron's stream, and Salem's height, 

And Olivet's brown steep, 
Rolls the majestic queen of night, 
And showers from heaven her silver light, 

And sees the world asleep. 

All but the children of distress, 

Of sorrow, grief, and care ; 
Whom sleep, though prayed for, will not bless: 
These leave the couch of restlessness, 

To breathe the cool, calm air. 

For those who shun the glare of day, 

There 's a composing power, 
That meets them o^\ their lonely way, 
In the still air, — the sober ray 

Of this religious hour. 



% Ti8 a religious hour; for he, 

Who many a grief shall hear, 
In his own body on the tree, 
Is kneeling in Uethscmane, 

In agony and prayer. 



HYMNS FOR COMMUNION. 107 

O, holy Father! when the light 

Of earthly joy grows dim, 
May hope in Christ grow strong and bright, 
In all who celebrate this rite 

In memory of him. 



V. 



" And when they had sung a hymn, they went out into the 
Mount of Olives." — Matlk. xxvi. 30. 



There 's something sweet in scenes of gloom 

To hearts, of joy bereft ; 
When hope has withered in its bloom ; 
When friends are going to the tomb, 

Or in the tomb are left. 

'T is night, a lovely night ; — and lo! 

Like men in vision seen, 
The Saviour and his brethren go, 
Silent, and sorrowful, and slow, 

Led by heaven's lamp serene, 

From Salem's height, o'er Kedron's stream, 

To Olivet's dark steep ; 
There, o'er past joys, so like a dream, 
O'er future woes, that present seem, 

In solitude to weep. 



108 OCCASIONAL. 

Heaven on their earthly hopes has frowned ; 

Their dream of thrones has fled ; 
The table that his love has crowned 
They ne'er again shall sit around, 

With Jesus at their head. 

Blast not, O God, this hope of ours, 

The hope of sins forgiven ; 
Then, when our friends the grave devours, 
When all the world around us lowers, 

We '11 look from earth to heaven. 



VI. 

" For my flesh is meat indeed." — John vi. 55. 

Had Jesus left his scattered fold 

The legacy of pride, 
Golconda's gems and Ophir's gold, 

When he, their Shepherd, died ; 

Few would have hoarded many a gem, 
Of those who shared them first ; 

And O, how many, even of them, 
Had, in that gift, been cursed ! 

Had such a legacy been cast 

Upon the stream of time ; 
Would it have come through ages past, ■ 

Ages of night and crime ? 



HYMNS FOR COMMUNION. 109 

And had it reached us all, should we 

In such a boon be blessed ? 
O no ; — a part might misers be, 

And prodigals the rest. 

But all may now a treasure hoard, 

That ne'er engenders strife ; 
For we may all, around this board, 

Partake the bread of life. 



VII. 

" My blood is drink indeed." — John vi. 55. 

When Asia's mighty conqueror died, 
His followers shared his realm : 

Yet, O how soon did ruin's tide 

Them and their thrones o'erwhelm ! 

Had every monarch from his throne 
By Jesus 1 arm been hurled ; 

Had he, the conqueror, held alone 
The sceptre of the world ; — 

Had his Apostles shared the globe ; 

Had all the Orient gems, 
That deck the royal Persian's robe, 

Blazed on their diadems ; — 



110 OCCASIONAL. 

Throned on the Egyptian's pyramid, 
Old Time had Been their power 

All crumble, as the Grecian's did, 
Ami wither like a flower, 

This JeSUS knew ; and, civ the 1 horns 

Around his head were pressed, 

The banquel which this hoard adorns 

He spread for <///, and blessed. 
Then gave he gems of hope to shine 

Around this goblet's hrim ; 

Then dropped a pearl into this wine, - 
The Memory of Him. 



VIII. 

Our Father! we approach thy hoard, 
As children, thai would be forgiven ; 

Remembering him, thy Son, who poured 
His blood, to seal our hope of heaven. 

O God, our Saviour ! while we thus 

Remember him who made us free, 
Who agonized and died lor us. 

Our grateful hearts would rise to thee. 



ii v M ns FOR OOM M union. \\\ 

In him, whose bursting heaii the cloud 
Of sorrow chilled) ;iikI wretchedness; 

Tn him, whoso fainting head was bowed 
In his unspeakable distress ; 

O listen to our forvoni prayer ; 

Thai he, who hung on Calvary's hill, 
And gave thee back his spirit there, 

May live in our affections still. 



\\2 



CHRISTMAS in MN. 



No moon hung o'er the Bleeping earth, 

But, <mi their thrones of light, 
The stars, thai Bang ere morning's birth, 

Pilled the blue vault of night 
With heavenly music ; • -earthlj cars 

Not often catch the hymn ; 
It was kw the music of the Bpheres," 

The song oi' seraphim. 

Bui there were those in Judah's land, 
\\ ho watched, that night, their fold, 

Who heard the song of the angel hand. 
As o'er them was unrolled 

'The starry glorj j and there eame 

This burst o( heavenly Bong, 
From mellow tubes and lips of dame, 
In chorus loud and Long. 

" To God be glory I — t\n\ this da\ , 

I [ath shot, from Judah's stem, 
A Branch, that ne'er shall know decay 

'The royal diadem 



c ii B istai as 11 v UN, 1 13 

Shall grace the brows of one, whom yo 
Shall in a manger find ; 

For, him hath God raised iij> to be 
Tilt' Saviour of mankind. 

kk To God be glory ! Peace on earth ! 

Glory to (Jod again ! 
For, with this infant Saviour's birth, 

There comes good will to men ! M — 
Good will to MEN ! (> (Jod, we hail 
This, of thy law tho sum ; 

For, as this shall o'er earth prevail, 

Si) shall ill v KINGDOM COUIS, 



II. 

HYMNS 

FOR 

ORDINATION AND INSTALLATION 



117 



HYMNS. 



I. 



Written for the Ordination of Mr. William Ware, as Pastor of the First 
Congregational Church in New York, December 18th, 1821. 

Thou who art above all height ! 

Our God, our Father, and our Friend ! 
Beneath thy throne of love and light, 

We, thine adoring children, bend. 

We kneel in praise, — that here is set 
A vine, that by thy culture grew ; 

We kneel in prayer, — that thou wouldst wet 
Its opening leaves with heavenly dew. 

Since thy young servant now hath given 
Himself, his powers, his hopes, his youth, 

To the great cause of truth and Heaven ; 
Be thou his guide, O God of truth ! 

Here may his doctrine drop like rain, 
His speech like Hermon's dew distill, 

Till green fields smile, and golden grain, 
Ripe for the harvest, waits thy will. 



US OCCASIONAL. 

And when he sinks in death, — by care, 
Or pain, or toil, or years oppressed, — 

O God ! remember then our prayer, 
And take his spirit to thy rest. 



II. 



Written for the Ordination of Mr. John P. B. Storer, as Pastor of the Con- 
gregational Church and Society in Walpole, November 15th, 1826. 

To Thee, our Father and our King, 
The wise, the gracious, and the just, 

Our song of thanks and prayer we bring, 
With humble joy and filial trust. 

Joy, that while yet the light is shed 
On the bowed form and hoary hairs 

Of him who here, so long, hath led 

Our fathers' and our childhood's prayers, — 

Thou hast provided for thy flock 
A pastor, in the strength of youth, 

To lead them up to Thee, their Rock, 
And to the living wells of truth. 

And trust, that He, who ne'er hath left, 
Will never leave his sheep to stray, 

Of shepherd and of shade bereft, 
O'er barren wastes, by night or day. 



HYMNS FOR ORDINATION. H9 

Wc thank Thee, Lord, in Christ thy Son, 
For all his servants, spared or given ; 

O, may wc, when our work is done, 

Shine with their light, and share their heaven. 



III. 

Written for the same occasion. 

God of mercy, do thou never 
From our offering turn away, 

But command a blessing ever 
On the memory of this day. 

Light and peace do Thou ordain it ; 

O'er it be no shadow flung ; 
Let no deadly darkness stain it, 

And no cloud be o'er it hung.* 

May the song this people raises, 
And its vows, to Thee addressed, 

Mingle with the prayers and praises, 
That Thou nearest from the blessed. 

When the lips are cold, that sing Thee, 
And the hearts that love Thee, dust, 

Father, then our souls shall bring Thee 
Holier love and firmer trust. 

* See Job hi. 4, 5. 



120 OCCASIONAL, 



AY 



IV. 

ritten for the Ordination of Mr. Charles C. Sewall, as Pastor of the First 
Unitarian Church and Society in Danvers, April 11th, 1827. 

Eternal One, whom mortal eye 

Hath never seen, and ne'er can see,* 

Loud winds, and fires that flame on high, 
Are spirits ministering to thee.f 

Those angels of thy love and might, 
How blest the office that they bear ! 

To shed on earth the holy light, 

And fill with health the wakened air. 

And yet, to man hast thou assigned 

A nobler ministry than this; — 
With grace and truth to cheer the mind, J 

And wake the soul to health and bliss. 

By him, who to this holy end 

Is now ordained, — as by the Son, 

Whom thou didst sanctify and send§ 
To save the world, — thy will be done. 

* I Tim. vi. 10. t Ps. civ. 4. t John i. 17. 

§ Jo/in x. 3G. 



HYMNS FOR ORDINATION. 121 

Thy will be done, whene'er he leads 
The service in these courts of thine ; 

Thy will be done, whene'er he pleads 
For truth or charity divine.* 

When at the couch by anguish pressed 
He kneels, and speaks of pardon there, 

Then may the contrite sufferer rest, 

Soothed by his presence and his prayer. 

When, like the moth, his house of clay f 
Is crushed, O may the spirit, Lord, 

That served thee in it, hear thee say, 
" Rise from thy toils to thy reward." 



Written for the Ordination of Mr. George vv. Bnrnap, as Pastor of the First 
Independent Church in ifuitimore, April 23d, 1828. 

God, we see thee smile again 
In the sweet sunshine of the spring ; 

Thou comest in the gracious rain ; 
Thou ridest on the wind's soft wing. 

Thou visitest the vales in floods, 

That in their fulness roll along ; 
And, when thou breathest on the woods, 

They wave in pomp, and wake; with song. 

* h. Iix.4. t Job iv. 19. 



[22 000A8TONAL, 

Ami, I iord, are nol thy goings thus 

In this our sanctuary Been 

Comes imi thy breath of life to us, 
( >nr prospects clothing all in green r 

Reviving hopes around us bud, 

I [opes, thai were rooted Long a{ 
Bu1 languished till thy grace, in flood, 

Returned and bade them swell and blow. 

What though for years thy feeble flock 

Bj hands of strangers hath been fed ? — 
Whai though we 've Long drawn near our Rock 

\\ ith.Mii ;t shepherd at our head ? 

We humbl) hope, thai nol in vain 
We *ve borne the trials of our trusl ; 

And thai thy truth will rise, like grain, 
The stronger for its sleep in dust. 

For days of care, and hope deferred, 
o granl us years of Large increase, 

Till from above thy voire is heard ; 
Cv 'N e faithful ones, depart in peace. M 



ii v m \s roa «»i( di n Ail on. L23 



VI. 



Written for the Installation of the Rer. Mellleto Irving Blotte, over thi 
Bouth Oongregatlooal Boolety In Boeton, May jim, i • 

" Lbt there be light!" — When from on high, 
God, thai final commandment came, 

Forth leaped the Sun-, and earth and sky 
Lay in his light, and felt his flame. 

"Let there bo light!" — The lighl of grace 
And truth, a darkling world to bless, 

CanH- with iliy word, when on our race 
Broke forth tin; Sun of Righteousness. 

Light of our souls! how strong it grows ! 

Thai Sum ! how wide his beams ho llin^s, 
As l ■ I > the glonOUB sky ho L, r oes, 

With light and healing in his win^s ! 

Give lis that light ! ( > God, 't is given I 
Hope sees it open heaven's wide halls 

To those, who for tin- truth h.ivc striven j 

And Faith walks firmly where it falls. 
Churches do more, in cold eclipse, 

Mourn the Withholding of its rays; 
It gilds their gates, and on the lips 

Of every faithful preacher plays. 



124 OCCASIONAL. 

Doth not its circle clasp the brows 

Of him, who, in the strength of youth, 

Gives himself up, in this day's vows, 
A minister of grace and truth ? 

Long may it, Lord ; — nor let his soul 
Go through death's gloomy vale alone ; 

But bear it on to its high goal, 

Wrapped in the light that veils thy throne. 



VII. 

Written for the Ordination of Mr. William Barry, over the Second Con- 
gregational Church and Society in Lowell November 17th, 1830. 

" On earth be peace ! " — God, that word 
To our ears comes not, as it came, 

When by Judea's shepherds heard 
From opening skies and lips of flame. 

Yet 't is thy word, when mortal tongue 

Makes it the burden of a hymn, 
Not less than when, of old, it rung 

From golden harps of cherubim. 

What though heaven's gates no more expand, 
And heavenly hosts their hymning cease ! 

On earth thine humbler servants stand, 
In humbler temples, " preaching peace." 



HYMNS FOR ORDINATION. 125 

Peace to the passions, when they show 

Resistance to thy wise control ; 
Peace to all fears, but those which go 

In arms against a sinful soul. 

Peace may thy servant preach, who now 

Comes, as a herald of thy grace, 
To lead thy people when they bow 

In worship, in this holy place. 

Beneath his care and labors, Lord, 
O, grant thy vineyard large increase ; 

And may a crown, as his reward, 

Be given him by the Prince of Peace. 



VIII. 

Written for the Installation of the Rev Andrew Bigelow, over the First 
Congregational Church and Society in Taunton, April 10th, 1833. 

When on the sun's broad splendors 

The gates of evening close, 
And darkling earth surrenders 

Her children to repose, 
The azure paths above us 

By sons of light are trod, 
Who watch, as those who love us, 

And tell us of our God. 



12G OCCASIONAL. 

So, Father, since the portals, 

Round which thine angels press, 
Shut from the eyes of mortals 

The Sun of Righteousness, 
The world he blessed hath never 

Of light been all bereft; 
The heralds of thy favor, 

Thy watchmen, still are left. 

They come, when we are weeping, 

To wipe our tears away ; 
They wake, while we are sleeping, 

And for our peace they pray ; 
Or, in the congregation, 

To plead thy cause they stand ; - 
O God of our salvation, 

Uphold them with thy hand. 

And let that spirit fervent, 

Which loves to labor thus, 
Abide upon thy servant, 

Who comes, this day, to us ; 
Thai, when his Btrength is failing, 

Those he hath led may say, 
"Our star is only paling 

In heaven's advancing day." 



HYMNS FOR ORDINATION. 127 



IX. 



Written for the Ordination of Mr. John T. Sargent as a Minister to the 
Poor in Boston, October 29th, 1839. 



"The poor, the suffering poor,' 1 — He said, 
Who, from his garment's very hem 

A healing virtue round him shed, — 

" Shall have the Gospel preached to them.'" 

Yes ! He, upon whose houseless head 
The stars dropped many a dewy gem, 

Broke, for the poor, the living bread 

He brought from heaven, and gave it them. 

Beneath the shade that branch hath spread, 
Which shot out green from Jesse's stem, 

These wandering poor are gathered 
To have the Gospel preached to them. 

He, who with oxen made his bed, — 
The houseless Babe of Bethlehem, — 

These houseless babes hath hither led, 
To have his Gospel preached to them. 

Lord, bless thy servant, who hath fed 
These lambs of thine, and help him stem 

The tide of sin, with fearless tread, 
And preach the Gospel unto them. 



128 OCCASIONAL. 

May not the soul of each be said, 
O God, to be a priceless gem ? 

Give them to him, who for them bled, 
To sparkle in his diadem ! 



Written for the Ordination of Mr. Frederick W. Holland, over the First 
Unitarian Society in Brooklyn, N. Y., April llth, 1838. 

To thee, O God, our Rock, 

Sing we a joyful song ; 
Who hast not left thy flock 
Without a shepherd long. 
O, may the voice 
Thy Spirit gave, 
O'er Jordan's wave, 
Approve our choice. 

To him whom thou hast sent 

To labor in this field, 
Lord, let thine aid be lent, 
That so his ground shall yield 
A large increase ; 
And so shall he, 
When called to thee, 
Depart in peace. 



HYMNS FOR ORDINATION. 129 

" Good Shepherd ! " let thy care 

To old and young extend ; 
These in thy bosom bear, 
O'er those in pity bend ; — 
Thy voice alone 
We love to hear ; 
Be ever near, 
To guard thine own. 

Beside still waters led, 

Through pleasant vales that flow, 
And in green pastures fed, 
May this, thy people, grow 
In every grace, 
Till all, above, 
In light and love, 
Behold thy face. 



XI. 



Written for the Ordination of Mr. Theodore H. Dorr, as Pastor of the First 
Congregational Church in Billerica, May 28th, 1839. 

MINISTER, Solo. 

To thine altar, Holy One, 

Who dost now this temple fill, 

As a servant of thy Son, 

" Lo, I come to do thy will." 
9 



180 OCCASIONAL. 

pxople, — full choir, 
Father ! let. thy servant's prayer 

Prom thine altar rise to thee ! 
Make his body's health thy care ; 

Keep his Bpixdl pure and IVec ! 

MINISTKK. 

To this people would 1 give 

What of Strength and light is mine ; 

But, Lord, that their souls may live, 
(live them light and strength divine ! 



On our youthful pastor's head 
Let thy holy spirit fall ! 

Send thy blessing with the bread 
That he brcaketh for us all ! 



When my hands that, bread shall break, 
In thy sight may they be clean ! 

When my lips for thee shall speak, 
Let their truth by thec be seen ! 

PEOPr.K. 

And when truth, from lips sincere, 
To our listening ears shall come, 

May it meet a welcome here I 
Give it in our hearts a home. 



HYMNS FOR ORDINATION. 131 

MINISTER. 

When my hands no more are spread, 
For this people, towards thy throne, 

Place a worthier in my stead ! 
Father, leave them not alone ! 



Father ! in that solemn hour, 
When his spirit leaves its clay, 

Take him, by the CiospePs power, 
To his rest in endless day. 



III. 

HYMNS 



DEDICATION 



135 



HYMNS. 
I. 

Written for the Opening of the Independent Congregational Church in 
Barton Square, Salem, December 7lh, 1824. 

O Thou, to whom in ancient time 

The lyre of Hebrew bards was strung, 

Whom kings adored in song sublime, 

And prophets praised with glowing tongue, — 

Not now on Zion's height, alone, 
Thy favored worshipper may dwell ; 

Nor where, at sultry noon, thy Son 
Sat, weary, by the Patriarch's well. 

From every place below the skies, 

The grateful song, the fervent prayer, — 

The incense of the heart, — may rise 
To Heaven, and find acceptance there. 

In this, thy house, whose doors we now 

For social worship first unfold, 
To thee the suppliant throng shall bow, 

While circling years on years are rolled. 



13G OCCASIONAL. 

To thee shall A.ge, with snowy hair, 

And Strength and Beauty, bend the knee, 

And Childhood lisp, with reverent air, 
Its praises and iis prayers to Thee. 

O thou, to whom in ancienl time 

The lyre of prophet bards was strung, 

To thee, at last, In every clime 
Shall temples rise, and praise be sung. 



II. 



Written for the Dedication of the Bouth Congregational Church in Boston, 
Jauuarj 30th 

With trump, and pipe, and viol chords, 

And song, the I'nll assembly brings 
Its tribute to the Lord of lords, 
Its homage to the King of kings. 

To God, who, from the rocky prison 

Where death had bound him, brought his Son, 

To (loil these walls from earth have risen; — 
To God, "the high and lofty One." 

Creator! at whose steadfast word 

Alike the years and oceans roll, 
Here may thy truth in Christ, our Lord, 

Shine forth and sanctify the soul. 



HYMNS FOB DEDICATION, 137 

Here, where we hymn thy praises now, 
Father and Judge ! may many a knee 

And many a spirit humbly DOW, 

In worship and in prayer to thee. 

And when our lips no more shall move, 

Our hearts no longer beat or burn, 
Then may the children thai we love 

Take up the strain, and, in their turn, 

With trump, and pipe, and viol strings, 
Here pay, with music's sweel accords, 

Their tribute to the King of kings, 
Their honlage to the Lord of lords. 



III. 



Written for the Dedication of the New Stone Congregational Church In 
Qiiincx , November 1 2tb, L828> 

When thy Son, O God, was sleeping, 
In death's rocky prison bound, 

When his faithful ones were weeping, 
And the guards were watching round, 

Then thy word, thai Strong house shaking, 
Rent the rocky bars away, 

And the holy sleeper, waking, 
Rose to meet the rising day. 



V,iH OCCASIONAL. 

Where thy word, by Jesus Bpoken, 

In its power is heard even now, 
Shake the hills, the rocks are broken, 

As on Calvary's trembling brow. 
Prom the bosom of the mountain, 

At that word, these stones have burst, 
And have gathered round the fountain 

Where our souls may quench their thirst. 

I [ere the water of salvation 

Lon^ hath gushed, b liberal wave; 
] lore a Father of our nation 

Drank, and fell the strength it gave. 
Here he sleeps, Ins hod how lowly!* 

Bui his aim and trusl w civ high ; 
And his memory, — thai is holy ; 

And his name, — it cannot die. 

While beneath this temple's portal 

Resl the relics of the just, 
While the lighl of hope immortal 

Shines above his s;icrcd dust, 

While the well of life its waters 
To the weary here shall i!;ivc, 

Father, may thy sons and daughters, 
Kneeling round it, drink and live ! 

* The renoaini of President John Adami are entombed under 

the portioo of tliis church. 



HYMNS FOR DEDICATION. 139 



IV. 



Written for the Dedication of the Flre't Congregational (Munch InClnol 

Oati, Ohio, May 3M, 1880. 

To <Jod, to God alone, 

This temple have we reared; 

To ( rod, who holdfl a throne 

Unshaken and unshared. 

Sole King of I leaven, 

Who 'st heard our prayers 

And blessed our cares, 

To thee '1 is given. 
O thou, whose bounty nils 

This plain so rich and wide, 

And makes its guardian hills 
Rejoice, on every side, 
With shady tree 
And growing grain ; 

This decent lane 

We give io thee. 

Thou, who hast ever stooped 

To load our land with good, 

Whose hand this vale hath scooped, 
And rollcth down its Hood 



140 OCCASIONAL. 

To the far sea, — 
This house we raise, 
And now, with praise, 

Devote to thee. 

To all, O God of love, 

Dost thou thy footsteps show ; 
The white and blue above, 
The green and gold below, 
The grove, the breeze, 
The morning's beam, 
The star, the stream, — 
They 're seen in these. 

Where now, in goodly show, 

The domes of art are piled, 
Thy paths, not long ago, 
Dropped fatness on a wild. 
O let us see 

Thy goings here, 
Where now we rear 
A house for thee. 

Nursed by the blessed dew, 

And light of Bethlehem's star, 
A vine on Calvary grew, 
And cast its shade afar. 
A storm went by, — 
One blooming bough, 
Torn off, buds now 
Beneath our sky. 



HYMNS FOR DEDICATION. 141 

O, let no drought or blight 

This plant of thine come nigh ; 
But may the dew, all night, 
Upon its branches lie ; 
Till towards this vine 
All flesh shall press, 
And taste and bless 
Its fruit and wine. 

Because, O Lord, thy grace 

Hath visited the West, 
And given our hearts a place 
Of worship and of rest ; 
Old age and youth, 
The weak, the strong, 
Shall praise in song 
Thy grace and truth. 

The grace and truth that came 

By thine Anointed Son, 
Here let such lips proclaim 
As fire hath fallen upon, 
From out the high 
And holy place 
Where dwells in grace 
Thy Deity. 

To thee, to thee alone, 

This temple have we reared : 
To thee, — before whose throne, 

Unshaken and unshared, 



]1^ OCCASIONAL. 

Sole King of I leaven, 

With thanks we how, — 

This temple now 
For praise is given. 



v. 



Written for tho Oonieorttlos of iho Conooterji m Mount Anburnj Bop 
lembor Mtb, L881. 



T.o TKee, ( !»«l, in humble trust, 
Our hearts their grateful Ineense burn 

For tliis thy word, kW Thou art of dust, 
Ami untO dust shall thou return. 11 

For, what wore life, life's work all done, 

The hopes, joys, loves, that ding to clay, 
All, all departed, one by om>, 
Ami yet life's load borne <>n lor aye. 

l>een\ ! Decay ! "I is stamped on all ! 

All bloom, iu flower and flesh, shall fade ; 
^ e whispering trees, when we shall fall, 
Be our long sloop beneath your shade 1 

Here, to thy hosoui, mother Earth, 
Take back, in peaoe, what thou hast given j 

Ami all that is of hea\enl\ hirth, 
God, iii peace, recall to Heaven. 



ii \ m \ s FOB in: Die ATION. 1 \:\ 



VI. 



Wiiii. u inr the Dedication <>r the Beaman'i Bethel, under the Dlreotii 
the Boston Port Booietyi Beptember 1th, L888< 

Thotj, who on the whirlwind ridest, 
Ai. whose word the thunder roars, 

Who, in majesty, presidest 
O'er ili«' oceans ;iikI their shores j 

From those shores;, and from the oceans, 
We, the children of the sea, 

( 'ome to [>ay then our devotions, 

And to give this house; to thee. 

When, for business on greal waters, 

We gO down t<» sea in ships, 

And our weeping wives and daughters 
l Lin", .ii parting, on our lips, 

This, mil- Bethel, shall remind n |, 

'Thai there *B One who hearelh prayer, 

Ami that those we leave hehind us 
Are a faithful pastor's care. 

Visions of our native highlands, 

lii our wave-rocked dreams embalmed, 
Winds thai come from spicy islands 

When we long have lain becalmed, 



144 OCCASIONAL. 

Are not to our souls so pleasant 
As the offerings we shall bring 

Hither, to the Omnipresent, 
For the shadow of his wing. 

When in port, each day that 's holy, 

To this house we '11 press in throngs ; 
When at sea, with spirit lowly, 

We '11 repeat its sacred songs. 
Outward bound, shall we, in sadness, 

Lose its flag behind the seas ; 
Homeward bound, we '11 greet with gladness 

Its first floating on the breeze. 

Homeward bound ! — with deep emotion, 

We remember, Lord, that life 
Is a voyage upon an ocean, 

Heaved by many a tempest's strife. 
Be thy statutes so engraven 

On our hearts and minds, that we, 
Anchoring in Death's quiet haven, 

All may make our home with thee. 



II V M NS FOR DEDICATION. 1 J5 



VII. 

Written tor ti><: Dedication of the new Congregational Church in Plymouth, 
built upon the Ground occupied i>y the earliest Congregational Church 

in A morion. 

The winds and waves were; roaring; 

The Pilgrims met for prayer ; 
And here, their God adoring, 

They stood, in open air. 
When breaking day they greeted, 

And when its close was calm, 
The leafless woods repeated 

The music of their psalm. 

Not thus, O God, to praise thee, 

Do we, their children, throng; 

The temple's arch we raise thee 

(Jives hack our choral song. 
Yet, on the winds, that bore thee 

Their worship and their prayers, 
May ours come up before thee 

From hearts as true as theirs ! 

What have we, Lord, to bind us 

To this, the Pilgrims' shore ! — 
Their hill of graves behind us, 

Their watery way before, 
10 



146 OCCASIONAL. 

The wintry surge, that dashes 
Against the rocks they trod, 

Their memory, and their ashes, — 
Be thou their guard, O God ! 

We would not, Holy Father, 

Forsake this hallowed spot, 
Till on that shore we gather 

Where graves and griefs are not ; 
The shore where true devotion 

Shall rear no pillared shrine, 
And see no other ocean 

Than that of love divine. 



VIII. 

Written for the Opening of the Mariner's House in Ann Street, Boston, 
as a Boarding-house for Seamen, by the Ladies of " The Seaman's Aid 
Society," in May, 1837. 

Tossed on the billows of the main, 

And doomed from zone to zone to roam, 

The seaman toiled for others' gain, 
But, for himself, he had no home. 

No father's door was open flung 

For him, just " rescued from the wreck " ; 

No sister clasped her arms and hung, 
In speechless joy, around his neck ; 



HYMNS FOR DEDICATION. 147 

But he was cast upon a world 

More dangerous than the ocean's roar, 

When o'er his bark the surges curled, 
And drove it on a leeward shore. 

He had no home ; — and so had He 

Who, as his bark began to fill, 
Said to the Lake of Galilee, 

When lashed by tempests, " Peace ! Be still ! " 

Of winds and dashing waves the sport, 

By perils, while at sea, beset, 
The sailor found himself, in port, 

Exposed to greater perils yet. 

False brethren were his perils there,* 

And perils by his countrymen, 
And perils by the sirens fair 

That lured him to the robber's den. 

But now a brother t stands, in stead, 
With open arms, to take him in, 

And spreads a banquet and a bed 
That may be tasted without sin. 

* 2 Cor. xi. 26. 

t Rev. Edward T. Taylor, (formerly a seaman,) Pastor of the 
Seaman's Chapel, or Bethel, and general Superintendent of the 
Mariner's House. 



1 IS OOOABIO N \ L, 

Yes! — the poor si'iiman hath ;i home I 
We thank thee, ( rod, for whal we sec ; 

Lei him no more nnd perils roam, 

Bui come, al once, to it and thee. 



I\. 



Written Ibr tii<- Dedloation of the Ghardon Streoi Chapel, In Boston, 
November Tin, I 

No curtains drawn, nor tout, imr shed, 

Shul oni the over-arching skies, 
When Jesus, in his manger bed, 

First turned to heaven his infant eyes. 

Bu1 (pnot Stars looked down, and threw, 

From diamond cups, on all the ground, 
Their blessed gifl of lighl and dew , 

While o\on tod or slepl around. 

Tin 1 babe, that in that manger lay, 

Hath broughl a gift more blessed far 
Than nighl dews, i)\- the brightest raj 

That ever dropped tVom sun or star. 

The lighl of truth, the dew of grace, 

I lo giveth to a w orld of sin ; 
And to his name we give this place, 

That once a mangered stall hath her 

* Tlu* building li.nl been oonvertedj from ;t large stable, into ;i 

very neat atul coiivciiu'iil ilupcl. 



HYMNS FOR DEDICATION, ] 1!> 

Not lis the [\!;in-i came, of old, 

With offerings to the new-horn King, 
or m\ nh, and frankincense, and gold, 

i -on.c we; hut. Lord, this house we bring 

To thee ; — and, since thou dost prefer, 

Before -ill temples, hearts sincere, 
W'e pray thai many a worshipper 

May klleel ;ukI find ace. pl.i nee here. 



Written on theOooaa of Laying the Corner Stone of the Suffolk Street 

Chapel, in Boston, for the Mlnlelry to iii<- Pdor, Maj 28d, L8S9 a 

On this stone, now laid with prayer, 

Let thy church rise, strong and fair ; 
Ever, Lord, thy name he known, 
Where we \e laid this ( Wner Stone. 

Lei " thy holy child, 11 who came 

Man from error to reclaim, 

And the sinner to alone 

With thee, bless this Corner Stone. 

Lei the star that stood, at first, 

O'CI* the place where I |e was nilisod, 

And on wondering Magi shone, 
Beam upon this Corner Stone. 



150 OCCASIONAL. 

Let the spirit from above, 
That once hovered, like a dove, 
O'er the Jordan, hither flown, 
Hover o'er this Corner Stone. 

In the sinner's troubled breast, 
In the heart by care oppressed, 
Let the seeds of truth be sown, 
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone. 

Open wide, O God, thy door, 
For the outcast and the poor, 
Who can call no house their own, 
Where we 've laid this Corner Stone. 

By "wise master builders" squared, 
Here be living stones prepared 
For the temple near thy throne ; — 
Jesus Christ its Corner Stone. 



HYMNS FOR DEDICATION. 151 



XI. 



Written for the Dedication of the Lyceum Hall in Dorchester, March 10th, 
1840. 

Knowledge and Virtue ! sister powers, 
Who guard and grace a Christian state, 

Better than bulwarks, walls, or towers, 
To you this hall we dedicate. 

Temple of Science ! through thy door, 
Now first thrown open, do we throng, 

And reverently stand before 

Creation's God, with prayer and song. 

Father of lights ! thou gav'st us eyes 

Earth, ocean, sun, and stars to see, 
And thee in all ; — they roll or rise 

To teach us of thy majesty. 

Works of his hand ! where'er ye lie, 
In earth or heaven, in light or shade, 

These walls shall to your voice reply ; 
Here shall your wonders be displayed. 

Trees ! that in field or forest stand, 

Flowers ! that spring up in every zone, 

Winds ! that with fragrance fill your hand, 

Where trees have leafed, or flowers have blown, — 



152 OCCASIONAL. 

Suns ! in the depths of space that burn, 
Planets ! that walk around our own, 

Comets ! that rush to fill your urn 

With light out-gushing from his throne, — 

Waters ! from all the earth that rise, 
And back to all its oceans go, 

Cooling, in clouds, the flaming skies, 
Cheering, in rains, the world below, — 

Torrents ! that down the mountain rush, 
Glaciers ! that on its shoulders shine, 

Pearls ! in your ocean bed that blush, 
Diamonds ! yet sleeping in your mine, — 

Lightnings ! that from your cloud leap out, 
Thunders ! that in its bosom sleep, 

Fires ! that from Etna's crater spout, 

Rocks ! that the earthquake's records keep, 

Rainbows ! that over-arch a storm, 

Or dance around a waterfall, 
Tornadoes ! that earth's face deform, — 

Teach us, O teach us, in this hall. 



IV. 



HYMNS AND ODES 



CHARITY OCCASIONS 



155 

/ 



HYMNS AND ODES. 



Written for the Twenty-second Anniversary of the Boston Female Orphan 
Asylum, September 20th, 1322. 

I praise the God, who, while I kept 

My watch beside the grave, 
Where, cold and dead, my father slept, 
Where, drowned in grief, my mother wept, 

An orphan stooped to save. 

He stooped to save when hope had fled ; 

For soon my mother's moan 
Was heard no more; — when she had shed 
Her last tear o'er my father's bed, 

She rested in her own. 

When round my couch the visions pressed, 

Of want, and guilt, and shame, 
Then, like the spirits of the blest, 
Sent forth to guide me to my rest, 

The orphan's guardians came. 



156 OCCASIONAL. 

I thank thee, Lord, for hope's sweet ray, 
To life's dark morning given ; 

Let it shine on through all my day ; 

Let virtues bloom along my way, 
And let their fruits be heaven. 



II. 



Written for the Anniversary of the Howard Benevolent Society, in Boston, 
December, 1825. 



Mighty One, whose name is holy, 

Thou wilt save thy work alive ; 
And the spirit of the lowly 

Thou wilt visit and revive.* 
"What thy prophets thus have spoken, 

Ages witness as they roll ; 
Bleeding hearts and spirits broken, 

Touched by thee, O God, are whole. 

By thy pitying spirit guided, 

Jesus sought the sufferer's door, 
Comforts for the poor provided, 

And the mourner's sorrows bore.f 
So, it was thy spirit, beaming 

In his face whose name we bear, 
That sustained him while redeeming 

Power's pale victims from despair. 

Is. Ivii. 15; Hub. iii. 2. t Is. liii. 4 ; Matth. viii. 17. 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 157 

To the prisoner, wan and wasting 

In the voiceless dungeon's night, 
He, thine own apostle, hasting, 

Led him forth, unbound, to light. 
So thy mercy's angel, bending, 

Heard a friendless prisoner call, 
And, through night's cold vault descending, 

Loosed from chains thy servant Paul.* 

Father, as thy love is endless, 

Working by thy servants thus, 
The forsaken and the friendless 

Deign to visit, even by us. 
So shall each, with spirit fervent, 

Laboring with thee here below, 
Be declared thy faithful servant, 

Where there 's neither want nor woe. 

* Ads xvi. 25, 26. 



158 OCCASIONAL. 



III. 



Written for the Centennial Anniversary of the Charitable Irish Society in 
Boston, March 17th, 1837. 



To the Emerald Isle, where our kindred are dwelling, 
And where the remains of our forefathers sleep, 

Our eyes turn to-day, with the tears in them swelling ; — 
But why are we sad, who this festival keep ? 

We weep not for ourselves ; — for our fathers, our 
mothers, 

Whom we ne'er shall see more ; for our sisters, our 
brothers, 

Whom we hope to see yet ; O yes, and for others 
We may not name aloud, — 'tis for these that we weep. 

Poor Ireland ! how long shall thy hardly earned treasures 
Be wrung from thy hand, that a priesthood may gorge, 

Who, year after year, are abroad on their pleasures, 
Or swelling the train of a William or George ! 

'T is not so with thy sons on this side of the ocean ; 

Here we open our hands from the grateful emotion 

We feel to our priests, for their zeal and devotion, 
In removing our sins and the fetters they forge. 

At evening, the blue eyes of many a maiden 

In Erin are lifted to look at the star, 
That is hung in the west ; and the night wind is laden 

With sighs for the loved ones beneath it afar. 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 159 

Girls of the green isle, O do not deplore us ! 
In our visions ye 're swimming, like angels, before us, 
And the Being, whose shield of protection is o'er us, 
Hath not made the deep an impassable bar. 

Though absent, the fount of our faith is not frozen ; 

While we live, of its up-welling waters we '11 draw, 
For the maids that we love, for the land that we 've 
chosen, 

Where Freedom is nursed at the bosom of Law. 
" Land of the free ! for the shelter thou 'st given 
To those whom the storm of oppression has driven 
From their homes, may a blessing be on thee from 
heaven ! " 

Say the sons and the daughters of Erin go bragh. 



IV. 



Written for the Anniversary of the Fatherless and Widows So iety in 
Boston, October 15th, 1837. 

The fatherless and widow, Lord, 
Find hope and comfort in this word, 
Which in thy Holy Book they see, — 
" Leave all thy fatherless to me." 

This checks the dying husband's sigh, 
As on his wife he turns his eye, 
Who, at his bed-side bends her knee, — 
" And let thy widows trust in me." 



160 OCCASIONAL. 

" Thy Maker is thy husband ; " — this 
Soothes the keen anguish of the kiss, 
Pressed by the wife upon his brow, 
Who answers not to " Husband ! " now. 

" Orphans and fatherless are we, 

Our mothers widows ! " — Thus, of old, 

Did Zion's children plead with Thee ; 
And still that mournful tale is told. 

But He hath come, who to his breast 
Clasped such forsaken ones and blessed. 
Here, Lord, are children left alone ; — 
Help us to clasp them to our own. 

And bless thy servant,* Lord, whose ear 
These orphans' thanks can never hear, — 
Thanks, that, although his eyes are dim, 
They have a father found in him. 

Time, with his softly falling sand, 
Hath closed his ear, but not his hand. 
Lord, when that sand shall all have run, 
Shall he not hear " Well done ! Well done ! " 

Father of all, our hope, our trust ! 
When we are sleeping in the dust, 
Let others rise, to soothe and bless 
The widow and the fatherless. 

* Referring to Mr. Theodore Lyman ; who had made the So- 
ciety a donation of $ 2,400, besides sundry valuable articles of 
food and clothing. lie was aged and almost totally deaf. 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 161 



V. 

Written for the Twentieth Anniversary of the Female Samaritan Society, 
Boston, October 22d, 1837. 

Faint, bleeding, of his robes bereft, 
" Ready to perish " by the/ way, 

'Mid craggy wilds by robbers left, 
A lonely Jewish traveller lay. 

A priest of Judah, passing by, 

The sufferer saw, and help denied. 

A Levite toward him turned his eye, 
And " passed by on the other side." 

A traveller from Samaria came, — 

Whose nation's bosom long had burned 

With hatred of the Jewish name, — 

And toward the wounded stranger turned. 

As nearer, on his beast, he drew, 
A thrill of pity through him ran ; — 

He saw not there a hated Jew ; 
He only saw a suffering man. 

He saw him ; — from his own scant store 
Of oil and wine he h" led his cup, 

From his own robe a bandage tore, 

And bathed his wounds and bound them up ; 
11 



162 OCCASIONAL. 

On his own beast the sufferer laid, 

And to an hospitable shed 
Bore him, — for all his nursing paid, 

And left him on a grateful bed. 

" Go, do thou likewise ! " Thus said He, 
Who gave the world this touching tale; — 

We would do likewise, Lord, till we 

Tread, each alone, Death's shadowy vale. 



VI. 



Written for the Fair of the Female Friendly Society for the Relief of 
Widows and Orphans, Boston, July 4th, 1839. 

Weary travellers are we, 

And our word is briefly spoken ; 

We must lean on charity, 

For our "stay and staff" is broken. 

We are widows ; — o'er the dead 
Oft we bend, to feed our sorrow ; 

But the grave can give no bread, 
And we have none for to-morrow. 

We are fatherless ; — the crowd 
Passes by and does not heed us. 

We are hungry ; — but the proud 
Shelter not, nor clothe, nor feed us. 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 163 

From our loved and lost ones parted, 

We are journeying on alone. 
We are sick and broken-hearted, — 

For our hearts were not of stone. 

We would gladly serve you, neighbour, 
Could we earn the coarsest meal ; 

But, we 're yet too young to labor ; — 
Must we starve, — or, must we steal ? 

We '11 do neither! — there are, round us, 

Pitying hearts and willing hands ; 
Woman's melting eye has found us ; 

She beside us pleading stands. 

Our fair friends, here, have been vying 

With each other in our aid, 
Night and day their needles plying, — 

See, what charming things they 've made! 

Let us lead you to this table, 

By their fairy fingers dressed ; — 

As you stand here, you '11 be able 
To look round on all the rest. 

This young lady is our sister ; — 

Is n't this a rare display ? 
There ! we knew you 'd not resist her ; — 

Pray you, Madam, step this way. 



KJ 1 OCCASIONAL, 

This good \n oman is our mother, 
For a mother's heart is hers. 

All gOOd people help c;ieh Other, 

All are thus ( rod's ministej 

Friends, we have been fainl and weary 
Travellers on life's thorn} waj ; 

Bu1 our path looks now less dreary ; 
Sunshine Tails upon '1 to-daj . 

Love's warm sunshine 1 How resplendeni 

Art thou to the Orphan hoy, 
Whom thou makes! Imm ri..\i»r.\ r. 

On this day oi' general i<>\ ! 



VII. 

Written ii>r the Jubilee of Sunday Schools, celebrated i>y the Boston Bun- 
day school Boelety, September 1 1th, 1831. 

Fatheb oi' lightsl we bless each ray 

Shot from thy ihroue to lead the blind ; 

With song we hail the holy day 

That \s dawning on the youthful mind. 

Gone is the gloom ! the cold eclipse, 
In which the Ignorant at thee gaze, 

lias passed ; and now from infant lips 
Art thou, God, " perfecting praise." 



HYMNS FOB CHARITY OCCASIONS. 165 

Bishop of souls, whose arms were spread, 
To clasp and Moss such little ones, 

On these be thine own spirit shed, 
That they may be thy Father's sons! 

Friends of the young, whose toils are o'er, 

Taste ye in heaven ;i purer bliss, 
Or one thai now ye cherish more, 

Than that which comes from days like this? 

Author of life ! when death's cold hand 

Is gently on our eyelids pressed, 
May sorrowing children round us stand, — 

The children whom our cures have blessed. 



VIII. 

Written lor the Thirteenth A.nnlvenary of the Howard Sunday School) 
Boaton, December LOtb, I 19. 

Shall that old chamber* be forgot, 

Where first, the light divine 
Shone on our infant Sunday School, 

So pleasant, but lung sync ? 

'T was pleasant, but. lang syne, my friends, 

'T was pleasant, Nut. lang syne, 

We 'II not forget that chamber where 

Wo prayed and sung lang syno. 
* An upper room in the circular building in Merrimack Street. 



]{}(] OCCASIONAL. 

Shall Friend-Street Chapel be forgot, 
To which, in lengthening line, 

When thai old room was full, we marched, 
In twenty eight or nine ? 
O, that appears lang syne, my friends, 
But, though it was lang syne, 

We '11 not forget the Chapel whetfe 

We used to meet lang syne. 

Shall our old teachers be forgot, 

Whose voice and look benign 
First drew us to the Sabbath School, 

And taught us there lang syne ? 

O, was not that lang syne, my friends, 

O, was it not lang sync ? 
But still we thank and bless them all, 
For teaching us lang syne. 

Some of those voices death hath hushed, 

And closed those kindly cyen, 
That were so cheering to our hearts, 

When we were sad lang syne. 

O, was not that lang syne, my friends ? 

It was, indeed, lang syne ; 
And heavenly hymns those voices sing,- 
That sung with us lang syne. 

Our white-haired Pastor,* should he soon 
Earth's toils and joys resign, 

Shall be remembered by us all, 
For what he did lang syne. 

* The Rev. Dr. Tuckerman. 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 167 

O, how he loved us all, my friends, 

He loved us all lang syne, 
And great be his reward in heaven, 
For loving us lang syne ! 

Nor be our present friends forgot, 

Who work the Gospel mine, 
Where Christ and his apostles dropped 

The gems of truth lang syne. 

O, that was lang, lang syne, my friends, 

Yes, that was lang, lang syne, 
But still those gems are just as bright, 
As were they lang, lang syne. 

O Father ! with those gems, more rich 

Than gold or silver fine, 
Be all our spirits crowned, as were 

Thy Son's and saints' lang syne. 

They 've worn their crowns lang syne, God, 

They 've worn their crowns lang syne ; 
O, help us tread the paths they trod, 
While serving thee lang syne ! 



168 OCCASIONAL. 



IX. 



Written for the Fifth Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts Charitable 
Mechanics' Association, October 4th, 1821. 



Spirit of Wisdom and of Power ! 

The works of Egypt's mightiest hour, — 

The pyramid and vaulted tomb, — 
The peerless fane of David's son, 
The giant towers of Babylon, — 

Old works of grandeur and of gloom, — 

The curtained ark, the jewelled vest 
That gleamed of old on Aaron's breast, 

Works for their glorious beauty famed ; 
All these, by thine informing mind, 
In strength were reared, with skill designed, 

And lead our thoughts to thee when named. 

Lone columns on the Ionian shore, 
And sculptured ruins scattered o'er 

Athenian and Corinthian plains, 
Of thy departed spirit speak, 
That shed a glory round the Greek, 

And threw its last light on his chains. 

The conqueror's arch, the temple's dome, 
Of pagan and of Christian Rome, 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 169 

Thy kindling spirit taught to swell ; 
And many a tall monastic pile, 
Still frowning o'er our fathers' Isle, 

Of thy past inspirations tell. 

The arts that bid our navies ride 
And thunder o'er the trackless tide, 

The arts of dove-winged Peace, are thine. 
Spirit of Wisdom and of Power ! 
Be thou our undecaying tower, 

And our adoring hearts thy shrine. 



X. 

Written for the same occasion. 

Now to the God to whom all might 
And glory in all worlds belong, 

Who fills unseen his throne of light, 
Come, let us sing a general song. 



His spirit wrapped the mantling air, 
Of old, around our infant Earth, 

And, on her bosom warm and fair, 
Gave her young lord his joyous birth. 

He smiles on morning's rosy way ; 

He paints the gorgeous clouds of even 
To noon he gives its ripening ray ; 

To night, the view of glorious heaven. 



17() OCCASION \ i.. 

lie drives along those sparkling globes 
In circles oi' unerring truth ; 

He decks them all in radiant robes, 
And crowns them with eternal youth. 

Si* will he crown the uprigbl mind, 
When life and all its toils are o'er ; — 

'Thou lei his praise, on every wind, 
Rise, till the winds shall wake no more. 



XI. 



Written for the Seventh Triennial Celebration of the Massachusetts Chari- 
table Mechanics' Latoolatlon, Ootober Ith, 1887. 

Loud o'er thy savage child, 

O God, the night-wind roared, 
As, houseless, in the wild 
llo bowed him and adored. 
Thou saw'sl him there, 
As to the sky 
He raised his eye 
In Pear and prayer. 



Thine inspiration came ! 
And, grateful for thine aid, 

An altar to thy name 

I [e built beneath the shade. 



HYMNS FOB CHARITV OCCASIONS. 171 

The limbs of larch, 
Thai darkened round, 

1 le bent and bound 
In many an arch ; 

Till, in a sylvan fane, 

Went up the voice of prayer, 
And music's simple strain 
Arose in worship there. 
The arching boughs, 
The roof of leaves 
That summer weaves, 
O'erheard his vows. 

Then beamed a brighter day; 

And Salem's holy height 
And Greece in glory lay 
Beneath (he kindling light. 
Thy temple rose 
On Salem's hill. 
While Grecian skill 
Adorned thy foes. 

Along those rocky shores, 

Along Ihose olive plains, 
Where pilgrim Genius pores 
O'er art's sublime remains, 
Long colonnades 
Of snowy while 
Looked forth in light 
Through classic shades. 



172 OCCASIONAL. 

Forth from the quarry stone 

The marble goddess sprung; 
And, loosely round her throw n, 

1 [er marble vesture hung ; 

And forth from cold 
And BUnleSS mines 
Canto silver shrines 

And gods of gold. 

The Star of Bethlehem burned! 

And, where he Stoic trod, 
The altar was oYrtnrned, 

Raised " to an unknown (lod." 

And now there are 
No idol fanes 
On all the plains 

Beneath thai star. 

To honor thee, dread Power! 

Our strength and skill combine 
And temple, tomb, and tower 
Attest the 8 gifts divine. 
A swelling dome 
For pride they gild, 
For peace they build 
An humbler home. 

By these our fathers 1 host 

Was led to victory first, 
When, on our guardless coast, 
The cloud of battle burst, 



HYMNS FOB CHAR IT* OCCASIONS, J73 

Through storm and spray, 

By these controlled, 
Our navies hold 
Their thundering way. 

Groat Source of every art ! 

Our homes, our pictured halls, 
Our thronged and busy mart, 
That lifts its granite walls, 
And shoots to heaven 
Its glittering spires, 
To catch the fires 
Of morn and oven, — 

These, and the breathing forms 

The brush or chisel gives, 
With this when marble warms, 
With that when canvass lives, — 
These all combine 
In countless ways 
To swell thy praise, 
For all are thine. 



174 OCCASIONAL. 



XII 



Written for the First Fair and Exhibition of the Massachusetts Charitable 
Mechanics' Association, September 20th, 1837. 

Not with a conqueror's song 
Thy courts, O God, we throng, 

For battles gained ; 
No cannon's sulphurous throat, 
No trumpet, gives its note, 
No banners o'er us float, 

With fresh blood stained. 

Over no captive kings, 

Our eagle spreads her wings, 

Or whets her beak ; 
Nor, o'er the battle-plain, 
Where death-shot fell, like rain, 
Where lie in gore the slain, 

Comes her shrill shriek. 

For Art, which thou hast given, 
The tribute due to Heaven 

We come to pay; 
Art, that, to deck her halls, 
On air and vapor calls, 
On winds and water-falls, 

And all obey. 



HYMNS FOR CHARITY OCCASIONS. 175 

Art, that, from shore to shore, 
Moves, without sail or oar, 

'Gainst winds and tides ; 
Or, high o'er earth and seas, 
Sits in her car at ease, 
And heavenward, on the breeze, 

Triumphant rides. 

Art, that, through mountain bars, 
Breaks, that her horseless cars 

Self-moved may go ; 
And, without looking back, 
Rolls, on her iron track, 
Where the white cataract 

Thunders below. 

Art, that on spool or reel, 
Winds the smooth silk or steel 

Spun by her hand, 
Then, with her touch of fire, 
Draws, from the chord or wire, 
Tones that an angel quire 

Well might demand. 

Art, that to thee, Most High ! 
Gladly doth sanctify 

Her works and powers ; 
Lord, ere our tongues are still, 
Our hands forget their skill, 
To thy most holy will 

Devote we ours. 



HYMNS AND ODES 



TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS 



12 



179 



HYMNS AND ODES. 
I. 

Written for the Anniversary of the Massachusetts Society for the Suppres- 
sion of Intemperance, in Boston, May 23d, 1832. 

Wake ! wake ! friends of your kind ! 
There 's a Demon, a Demon, abroad ! 
Ye '11 scent him in every breath of the wind ; — 
Around him is woe ; — Death and Hell are behind ! — 
The foe of man and of God. 
The Prince of the devils is it, 
Escaped from the bottomless pit, — 
Escaped, in his wrath or his mirth, 
To put out the lights of the earth. 

Watch ! watch ! — Creeping by stealth, 
Like the serpent through Eden's shades, 
The mansions of peace, and of worth, and of wealth, 
Assuming the form of " a spirit of health," 
This " goblin damned " invades. 

He claims, — and his claim is allowed ! — 
The young, and the fair, and the proud ; 
He claims, and he brands them as slaves, 
And drags them all down to their graves ! 



180 OCCASIONAL. 

Hark! hark! Hear ye the chain, 
That is clanking in yonder cell ? 
The Demon is there with the felon insane ; 
He is tearing a heart, — he is burning a brain ! — 
That shriek is a maniac's yell ' 
That long, heart-rending moan 
Is a wife's, — she is sitting alone ; 
The man, on whose arm she has leaned, 
Has left her, to worship the Fiend ! 

Arm ! arm ! good men and bold ! 
'T is a question of life or death ;' 
His banners are floating! beneath are enrolled 
Your brothers, your fathers, your children, — all sold, 
(Bear witness their tainted breath!) 
As victims that soon shall expire 
In the flames of unquenchable fire, — 
Expire on his altar accursed, 
In the fire of unquenchable thirst ! 

On ! on ! The fall is decreed 
Of the throne of the Evil One. 
At his feet shall immortals by hecatombs bleed ? 
His vassals already cry out to be freed, — 
Resolve ! and the work is done. 
Resolve ! and the pits that yawn, 
From dewy eve till dawn, 
That spirits infernal may rise, 
No more shall insult the skies. 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 181 



II. 



LICENSE LAWS. 



"We license thee, for so much gold,"* 

Says Congress, — they 're our servants there, — 

" To keep a pen where men are sold 
Of sable skin and woolly hair ; 

For ' public good ' requires the toil 

Of slaves on Freedom's sacred soil." 

" For so much gold we license thee," 
So say our laws, " a draught to sell, 

That bows the strong, enslaves the free, 
And opens wide the gates of hell ; 

For c public good ' requires that some 

Should live, since many die, by rum." 

* Four hundred dollars is the sum, prescribed by Congress, — 
the local legislature of the District of Columbia, — for a license 
to keep a prison-house and market, for the sale of men, wo- 
men, and children. See Jay's " View of the Action of the. Federal 
Government in behalf of Slavery" p. 87. 

Whether the sin of slavery, or " the slavery of sin," is the 
more proper object of legislative protection, it is for our rulers 
in the State House and the City Hall to determine. To their 
consciences the question is respectfully referred. The time is 
coming when they must answer it. 



182 OCCASIONAL. 

Yc civil fathers ! while the foes 
( )f this destroyer seize their swords, 

And Heaven's own hail is in the Mows 
Thej 're dealing, — will yk cut the cords 

That round the Palling fiend they draw, 

And o'er him hold your shield of law? 

And will ye give to man a hill 
Divorcing him from Heaven's high sway, 

And, while God says, " Thou shall not kill, 11 

Say ye, for gold, " Ye may, — ye maj "? 
Compare the body with the soul ! 
Compare the bullet with the bowl ! 

In which is felt the fiercer blast 
Of the destroying angel's breath? 

Which hinds its victim the mere fast? 

Which kills him with the deadlier death? 
Will ye the felon fox restrain, 

And \c\ take off the tiger's chain ? 

The li\ ing to the rotting dead 

The God -contemning Tuscan* tied, 
Till, by the way, or on his bed, 

The poor corpse-carrier drooped and die'd,- 
Lashed hand to hand, and face to face, 

In fatal and in loathed embrace. 

IVfesentiui. See Virgil, • Eneid, viii. 481 -491. 



HYMNS FOB TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. JH.'J 

Less ■■■ tting, think ye, is the thong 
Thai to a breathing corpse!, for life, 

Lashes, in torture loathed and long, 
The drunkard's child, — the drunkard's wife? 

To clasp that clay, — -to breathe that breath, — 

\ii.l qo escape ! ( >, that is death ! 

Are ye nol fathers ? When your sons 

Look I.) you for their daily bread, 
Dare ye, in mockery, load with stones 

The table thai for them ye spread ? 

I low can ye hope your sons will live, 

If ye, Cor fish, a serpenl give ? 

<>, Holy Cod ! lei lighl divine 

Break forth more broadly from above, 

Till we conform our laws to thine, 
The perfect law of truth and love ; 

For truth and love alone can save 

Thy children from a ho] rave. 



184 OCCASIONAL. 



III. 



Written for the Simultaneous Temperance Meeting, in the Old South 
Church in Boston, February 24th, 1835. 

Thou sparkling bowl ! thou sparkling bowl ! 

Though lips of bards thy brim may press, 
And eyes of beauty o'er thee roll, 

And song and dance thy power confess, 
I will not touch thee ; for there clings 
A scorpion to thy side, that stings ! 

Thou crystal glass ! like Eden's tree, 

Thy melted ruby tempts the eye, 
And, as from that, there comes from thee 

The voice, " Thou shalt not surely die." 
I dare not lift thy liquid gem ; — 
A snake is twisted round thy stem ! 

Thou liquid fire ! like that which glowed 

On Melita's surf-beaten shore, 
Thou 'st been upon my guests bestowed, 

But thou shalt warm my house no more. 
For, wheresoe'er thy radiance falls, 
Forth, from thy heat, a viper crawls ! 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 185 

What, though of gold the goblet be, 
Embossed with branches of the vine, 

Beneath whose burnished leaves we see 
Such clusters as poured out the wine ? 

Among those leaves an adder hangs ! 

I fear him : — for I 've felt his fangs. 

The Hebrew, who the desert trod, 

And felt the fiery serpent's bite, 
Looked up to that ordained of God, 

And found that life was in the sight. 
So, the worm-bitten's fiery veins 
Cool, when he drinks what God ordains. 

Ye gracious clouds ! ye deep, cold wells ! 

Ye gems, from mossy rocks that drip ! 
Springs, that from Earth's mysterious cells 

Gush o'er your granite basin's lip ! 
To you I look ; — your largess give, 
And I will drink of you, and live. 



186 OCCASIONAL. 



IV. 



Written for the Simultaneous Temperance Meeting, at the Odeon in 
Boston, February 28th, 1837. 

How long, O God, how long 

Must thy pure eyes behold 
This fair world blasted by the wrong, 

Man does to man for gold ? 
How long shall Reason be cast down, 
And a fierce demon wear her crown ? 

The prisoner's cell, that all 

Life's blessed light bedims, 
The lash that cuts, the links that gall, 

The poor slaves' festering limbs, — 
What is this thraldom, to the chain 
That binds and burns the drunkard's brain ? 

If, then, thy frown is felt, 

O God, by those who bind 
The body, — what must be the guilt 

Of such as chain the mind, 
Drag to the pit, and plunge it in ! 
O have not tl\ese " the greater sin " ? 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 187 

The mother of our race, 

Whose sin brought death and woe, 

Yet, in her weakness, found thy grace ; — 
The Tempter's curse we know. 

Doth he who drinks, wrong most the soul ? 

Or he who tempts him to the bowl ? 

Help us, O God, to weigh 

Our deeds as in thy scales ; 
Nor let gold dust the balance sway ; — 

For good o'er gold prevails 
At that dread bar where all must look 
Upon the record in thy Book. 



V. 



Written for the Opening of the Marlborough Hotel, as a Tempeitnce House, 
July 4th, 1837. 

In Eden's green retreats, 

A water-brook, — that played 
Between soft, mossy seats, 
Beneath a plane-tree's shade, 
Whose rustling leaves 
Danced o'er its brink, — 
Was Adam's drink, 
And also Eve's. 



188 OCCASIONAL. 

Beside the parent spring 

Of that young brook, the pair 
Their morning chant would sing ; 
And Eve, to dress her hair, 
Kneel on the grass 
That fringed its side, 
And make its tide 
Her looking-glass. 

And, when the man of God 
From Egypt led his flock, 
They thirsted, and his rod 
Smote the Arabian rock, 
And forth a rill 
Of water gushed, 
And on they rushed, 
And drank their fill. 

Would Eden thus have smiled, 

Had wine to Eden come ? 
Would Horeb's parching wild 
Have been refreshed with rum ? 
And had Eve's hair 
Been dressed in gin, 
Would she have been 
Reflected fair? 

Had Moses built a still, 
And dealt out to that host, 

To every man his gill, 

And pledged him in a toast, 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 189 

Would cooler brains, 

Or stronger hands, 

Have braved the sands 
Of those hot plains ? 

" Sweet fields, beyond " death's flood 

" Stand dressed in living green ; " 
For, from the throne of God, 
To freshen all the scene, 
A river rolls, 

Where all who will 
May come and fill 
Their crystal bowls. 

If Eden's strength and bloom 

Cold Water thus hath given, 
If, even beyond the tomb, 
It is the drink of heaven, 
Are not good wells 
And crystal springs 
The very things 
For our Hotels ? 



190 OCCASIONAL. 



VI. 



Written for the Ninth Anniversary of the New York State Temperance 
Society, in Albany, February 8th, 1838. 

Dash to the floor that bowl ! 
Dare not its sweets to sip ! 
There 's peril to the soul, 
If once it touch the lip. 
Why will ye drown 
The God within ? 
Avoid the sin ! 
• Ay, dash it down ! 

Once, to the exiled John 

A poisoned cup was brought. 
The bearer had withdrawn ; — 
The saint, by angels taught, 
Saw, o'er its brim, 
An asp's head rise, 
Whose burning eyes 
Were fixed on him. 

So Truth, by whose bright blaze 

Is many a secret sin 
Revealed, in these our days 

Hath taught us, that, within 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 191 

That narrow span, 

The wine-cup's grasp, 

There lives an asp, 
There dies a man ! 

Then let no fire be brought, 
In goblet, glass, or bowl, 
Within " the dome of thought, 
The palace of the soul ; " 
Lest, in that fire 
Of burning drink, 
That palace sink, 
That soul expire. 

Should God, in wrath, ordain 

A universal dearth, 
What need he do, but rain 
On all this green, glad earth, 
From cloudy urns, 
The curse that fills 
Our vats and stills, 
That blights and burns ? 

Save us from such a shower, 

God of the eastern bow ! 
That pledge, of love and power, 
What bends,. what paints it so ? 
That bow in air 

'T is light that bends, 
Heaven's light, that blends 
With water there. 



] 92 o c c a s r o n a l . 

Let light on water shine, — 

The light of love and truth ! 
Then shall that drink divine 
Be quailed by Age and Youth ; 
And, as thai how 

Doth heavenward bond, 
Shall heavenward tend 
The \\;i\ they go. 



VII 



Written for the Juvenile Celebration of the Simultaneous Meeting of the 
Friends of Temperance, throughout the World, at the Odeon in Boston, 
February 27th, 18 

We sing the praise of Water ; 
Come, every sou and daughter 

Of Freedom's land ! 
With such a theme before us, 
With God's greal shield held o'er us, 
Who will not join the chorus 

Of our young hand ? 

Yon silver fountain's basin, 
'T is sweet to see thy face in, 

Fair harvest moon ! 
And, when the sun has shone in, 
On the white pebbles thrown in, 
'T is sweet to see our own in, 

At sultry noon. 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 193 

Sweet is the light that quivers 
On water brooks and rivers ; 

Fresh arc the trees 
Whose feet the wave caresses, 
And fresh the bloom that dresses 
Their loose and fragrant tresses 

For evening's breeze. 

Grateful the cloud that over 
Wide fields of blooming clover 

Swims, charged with rain ; 
Grateful the rill that gushes 
From heights where day first blushes, 
And down the hill-side rushes 

To bless the plain. 

Streams of the wood-crowned mountain, 
Children of cloud and fountain, 

Who dance and sing 
O'er snow-beds iced and glossy, 
O'er rocks with green tufts bossy, 
Down paths all clean and mossy ! 

Your tribute bring. 

To all earth's sons and daughters 
" The circuit of the waters " 

Gives joy and health ; 
Floats the gay barge of pleasure, 
And, without stint or measure, 
Wafts on that heavenly treasure, 

True Wisdom's Wealth. 
13 



194 OCCASIONAL. 



VIII. 

Written for the Celebration of National Independence on Temperance 
Principles, in Fanueil Hall, Boston, July 4th, 1839. 

Air : " When the trump of Fame." 

Let the trump of Fame 
Now to their memory swell, 

Who, in Freedom's name, 
Fought and bravely fell ! 

On the heroes moved, 
With death on every side ; — 

For the land they loved 
They died, — they died. 

Round the names of all, 
Shall honor's chaplets green, 

Here, in Freedom's Hall, 
Freshly wreathed be seen, 

Till all the nations raise 
The shout, like ocean's roar, 

That Right our sceptre sways, 
And " Slavery reigns no more." , 

When the patriot dead, 
Who, in their glory rest, 

From their lowly bed, 
In ghostly garments drest, 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 195 

Come up, and, at our call, 
This festive board surround, — 

Shall they see this Hall 
In wassail drowned ? 

Can man, to Freedom true, 
Prove false to Virtue's laws ? — 

In our fathers' view 
Come, pledge the Temperance Cause ! 

Wine is Freedom's foe ! 
Hence let the recreant fly, 

Lest, by the traitor's blow, 
She, in her cradle, die ! 



IX. 

Written for the same occasion. 
Air : " Ye mariners of England.'''' 

Lift up, lift up the standard, 
And plant it near the well ! 
And, gathered underneath its folds, 
A choral anthem swell ! 
The anthem that is set in praise 
Of brooks and cisterns sing ! 
Give one strain to the rain, 
Give another to the spring ; — 
Yea, give a chorus loud and long 
To aqueduct and spring. 



196 OCCASIONAL. 

Green hills and smiling valleys ! 

Ye once were red with gore, 

When Freedom's thunders o'er you rolled, 

And broke along our shore. 

The holy skies have poured their rains, 

And sifted down their snows, 

Till the stain of the slain, 

That beneath your turf repose, 

Is washed away, and the sods are clean, 

Where the martyred brave repose. 

Even so will ice and water 

Make clean our living clay ; — 

Then let them grace our festive board 

On Independence day ; — 

The day that tells us of the blood 

That was, like water, poured 

From their veins, on the plains 

Where our fathers grasped the sword, 

Where the cumbrous sheath was thrown away, 

And flashed the freeman's sword. 

Ye heroes of the bottle, 

Who " bumper" every toast, 

Who keep your wine in cobwebs wrapped, 

And make its age your boast, 

The oldest wine your vaults have known 

From press or vat to flow, 

Is new to the dew 

That six thousand years ago 

Came down to fill our cups, one night, 

Six thousand years ago. 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 197 

Ye champions of cold water, 

Who quaff that drink divine, 

Who 've given your rum and brandy o'er, 

And bid adieu to wine, 

The bottles that ye crack to-day, 

By God's own hand are given ; * 

Some in earth have their birth, 

And some are made in heaven ; 

The granite rock and spring are those, 

And these the clouds of heaven. 

Then, up the Temperance standard ! 

And plant it by the well, 

And, shaded by its waving folds, 

A choral anthem swell ! 

The anthem that is set to chime 

With babbling waters sing, 

Give one strain to the rain, 

Give another to the spring, 

Yea, give a chorus loud and long, 

To aqueduct and spring ! 

* Who numbereth the clouds in wisdom ? 
And who poureth out the bottles of heaven ? 

Job xxxviii. 37. 



198 OCCASIONAL. 



X. 



A Souk written for (ho same occasion. 

Ttmg : " fomkot Doodle." 

Says Jonathan, Bays lie, " To-day 
I will be independent, 

And so my o TO ir I 'II throw away, 

Ami that shall be die end on't. 

Clear the house ! the 'larnal stuff 

Shan't be here so hand} ; 

Wife has given the winds her snull, 
So now here noes my brandy ! 
Chorus. Clear the house, &C. 

"Our fathers, though a sturdy folk, 
Were sometimes rayther skittish ; 

And so they wouldn't wear the yoke 
Brought over by the British. 
^ onder, on old Hunker's head, 

Prom their neeks they shook it; 

There they fired off all their lead, 
And then they had to hook it, 
Chorus, fonder, on, &c. 

lw But though they lit and run away, 
They wunft a bit o' cowards ; 

The) lived to fight another day, 
When lookin 1 Gin'ral Howe-wards. 



HYMNS TOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 100 

What could then the Gin 1 nil do 

For his own salvation ? 
Why, he c cussed and quit ' the u- 

nivarsal Yankee nation. 
Chorus. What could then, &c. 

" The tyrant that our fathers smoked 

Lay skulkin 1 in a tea-pot; 
There 's now ■ a worscr' to be choked, 
In bottle, jug, or wee pot ; 
Often in a glass he shows 

What he calls his * body ' ; 
And often wades, up to his nose, 
In a bowl of toddy. 
Chorus. Often in a glass, &C. 

" Sometimes he creeps up, through the slim 

Stem of a very fine pipe ; 
And sometimes plunges, for a swim, 
All over in a wine-pipe ; 

But, he 's tickled, most of all, 

When he hears the summons 
Down his favorite pipes to crawl, — 
The ivind-pipcs of the rum-uns. 
Chorus. But, he 's tickled, &c. 

"And when he gets the upper hand, — 

This tyrant, base and scurvy, — 
He strips a man of house and land, 

And turns him topsy-turvy. 



200 OCCASIONAL. 

Neck and heels he binds him fast, 
And says that he is his'n ; 

But lets him have, rent free, at last, 
A poor-house or a prison. 
Chorus. Neck and heels, &c. 

" And now," says Jonathan, " towards Rum 

I 'm desperate unforgivin' ; 
The tyrant, never more, shall come 
Into l the house I live in.' 
Kindred spirits, too, shall in- 
to outer darkness go forth ; 
Whisky, Toddy, Julep, Gin, 
Brandy, Beer, and so forth. 
Chorus. Kindred spirits, &c. 

" While this cold water fdls my cup, 

Duns dare not assail me ; 
Sheriffs shall not lock me up, 
Nor my neighbours bail me ; 
Lawyers will I never let 

'Choose me as defendant 9 ; 
Till to death 1 pay my debt, 

I WILL BE INDEPENDENT." 

Chorus. Lawyers will I never let, &c. , 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 201 



XI. 

Written for a Temperance Meeting in South Boston, September Ctb.,1839. 
Air : " When the trump of Fame.'''' 

Let the trump of Fame 

Be blown in praise of all, 
Who, in Virtue's name, 

Fight or bravely fall ! 
On the heroes move, 

Though hosts their march impede ; 
For the land they love 

They plead, they plead. 
Who hath ears to hear 

Let him hear their plea, 
And with holy fear 

From the Tempter flee ; 
Till brew-house, vat, and still 

Are swept from all our shore, 
And hill shall shout to hill, 

" Their slavery is no more ! " 

Cheer the patriot band, 

Who, for their country, draw 
The sword of God's right hand, 

The sword of Right and Law ! 



202 OCCASIONAL. 

They in His strength are strong, 

Who dare encounter loss, 
While bearing thus along 

The cross, the cross. 
Grasp, every man, his shield, — 

The shield of faith, — and come 
On to the battle-field, 

Against the powers of Rum. 
Those powers are shaken, even now ! 

Of Heaven they 're not the powers ! 
Then on, with dauntless brow ! 

The Victory is ours ! 



XII. 

Morning Hymn for Family Worship. 
Tune : " Sicilian Hymn." 

Source of being, Holy Father, 
With the day's returning light, 

Round our board with thanks we gather, 
For the mercies of the night : 

Mercies that the stars outnumber, 
Which their silent courses keep, — 

Angel guards that never slumber, — 
While we lie and safely sleep. 



HYMNS FOR TEMPERANCE OCCASIONS. 203 

Pillows, wet with tears of anguish, 
Couches, pressed in sleepless woe, 

Where the sons of Belial languish, 
Father, may we never know ! 

For, the maddening cup shall never 
To our thirsting lips be pressed, 

But, our draft shall be, for ever, 
The cold water thou hast blessed. 

This shall give us strength to labor, 
This, make all our stores increase ; 

This, with thee and with our neighbour, 
Bind us in the bonds of peace. 

For the lake, the well, the river, 
Water-brook, and crystal spring, 

Do we now, to thee, the Giver, 
Thanks, our daily tribute, bring. 

1840. 



XIII. 

Evening Hymn for Family Worship. 
Tune: " Old Hundred." 

This day, O God, thy blessed hand 
Hath thrown wide open all thy stores, 

And filled with bounty every land, 
The sea, and all its sounding shores. 



204 OCCASIONAL. 

Beast, bird, fish, insect, hast thou fed 

With fish or flesh, with grass or grain ; — 

For man a table hast thou spread 

From field, flood, air, or roaring main. 

But, for all things o'er earth that move, 

In air or ocean soar or sink, 
One thing hath thine unbounded love, 

And only one, prepared for drink. 

'T is water ! In the living spring 
It gusheth up to meet our lip ; 

In brooks we hear it murmuring, 
From mossy rocks we see it drip. 

It filleth Health and Beauty's cup, 
And wrath and sorrow doth it drown, 

As from our wells it cometh up, 
As from thy clouds it cometh down. 

For the cool water we have quaffed, 

Source of all good ! we owe thee much ; 

Our lips have touched no burning draught 
This day, nor shall they ever touch. 

When we retire to our repose, 

And Night's dark curtains round us draw, 
O guard us, as thou guardest those 

Who trust thy care, and keep thy law ! 

1840. 



TEMPERANCE TALE. 205 



XIV. 

THE DRUNKARD'S FUNERAL 

There was, some eighteen years or more ago, 

A young man, a parishioner of mine, 

Whose name was Willard. There are Willards many. 

As there are many Lords and many Smiths. 

This Willard was a butcher ; — and my meats 

I often bought of him, in Boylston Market. 

He was a man of about five feet ten ; 
Upright, of ample chest and well-knit frame. 
His eyes were black ; and, on his healthy cheeks, 
The rose and lily met and kissed each other. 
Had he, instead of Boston, dwelt in Rome, 
The sculptors there, Thorwaldsen and Canova, 
Might have pulled caps to see whose studio 
Willard should grace by standing as a model, 
When those magicians were about to call 
A young Apollo from Carrara's marble. 

His young wife, in her comfortable home, 
I visited, in my parochial walks ; — 
And, for a year or two, his pew, I saw, 
Was never empty on the Sabbath day. 
But, after that, both from his pew and stall 
He was an absentee ; and then I learned 
That he 'd become a drover ; and, as such, 



206 OCCASIONAL. 

Went up and down the earth, and to and fro, 

And dealt in bullocks, as he M deall in beef. 

Still later, — and, meanwhile, his face no more 
Was seen with those who, in the holy place, 

"Came to present themselves before the Lord;" 

And, therefore, knew 1 him or his do more; — 

I sometimes saw him, in the business streets. 

Acting, it seemed to me, as owner, fust. 

And, last, as only driver, of a dray. 

And then, for years, he was to me as lost. 

His comely figure sometimes swam along 
Before the closing eye oi' Memory ; 

Ami 1 would ask myself what bad become 

Of Willard J he had seemed like one on whom 

The eve oi' Fortune had not turned with smiles; — 

Like one who, on the ladder oi' affairs. 

Had been, for some time, stepping, — like a man 

Descending from a roof with empty bod, — 
Backwards and downwards. But years rolled away ; 
The places be bad tilled were filled by others ; — 

Another, in the market, had his stall ; 

And, to his pew, another family 

"Came, to present themselves before the Lord/'' 

Such is the mutability of life ! 

fears passed; — and, late one Saturday, there came 
A neighbour, to request that I would go. 

And offer prayer with a poor family 

Whose head was taken away. The tenement, 

The cold brick tenement, where the poor wife 
Sat with her children, shrouded in coarse weeds, 



TEMPERANCE TALK. 207 

Appeared almost as chill and desolate 

As did the cold, white tenement of clay, 

That lay o'crthrown before me. There appeared, 

Around the mourners, not a single thing 

That spoke of comfort past, or good to come ; — 

Nothing, — save what the bowels of the law 

Deny its harpy fingers. I saw then, — 

What I 'd surmised, — that these poor, desolate ones 

Must be, — they were ! — a drunkard 's family. 

To pray with those from whom the hand of death 
Hath taken away the reverend and the wise, 
Or, " in its infant innocence," removed 
The babe, the budding child, — meet type of heaven! — 
Is a delightful office. Then the eye 
Of Christian faith follows the soul, set free 
From sensual chains and lures, and sees it wing 
Its upward way ; — and sees the gates of bliss 
Swing open wide, to let the white dove in. 

How full of comfort is the Holy Book, 
For such as mourn the righteous and the pure ! 
How full of consolation then may be 
The voice of him, whose office 't is to give 
"Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! " But, oh ! 
If thou 'at a heart that pity e'er hath touched, 
Pity him, who the sacrifice of prayer 
Must offer at a drunkard's funeral ! 

The brothers of the man, o'er whose remains 
Prayer must be made, had from the country come 
To take the body back, — now that the town 



208 OCCASIONAL. 

Had wrought its work upon it, — and to lay 

What, was oner beautiful and lull of life, 
Into the kind arms of its mother, Earth. 

The collin's lid was closed. Before I prayed, 
I stepped up by its side, to read the name 

Cut on the Oietal plate ; — for though the shades 

Of evening wen- descending, there was light 
Enough thrown off from its reflecting lace 
For me to see that " Willard " was the name ! 

Ere I withdrew, I took the widow's hand, 
Dropped what poor words of comfort I could find, 
And said, " On Monday I will visit you." 

I did so. On the corner of her hearth, 
On which were burning a few coals and brands, 

I found her sitting. She was bending o'er 
Her youngest child, — an infant, in her lap,— 
On which she seemed to ga/.e in speechless woe. 
Deep o'er her eyes, concealing all her face, 
Fell the wide ruffle of her cap of crape. 
A little barefoot girl, some ten years old, 
Was taxing all her strength, o'er the poor fire 
To hang an iron kettle ; — not for tea, 
Nor yet to cleanse the ilis/ics, to be used 
At an approaching dinner; but, to wash, 
As it appeared, the few and tattered shreds 
That death anil infancy had lately worn. 

I sat down by the desolate one, and strove 
By words of soothing to dissolve the spell 



TEM PEB A NOE TA L 



Thai Borrow seemed to have thrown over her. 
Hut, she was dumb, — she opened uol her mouth. 
My heart for her apologized, and said 
"A hopeless, tearless, voiceless grief is this, 11 — 

(For, ;ill this while, no |e;ir dropped on her babe !) 
"And well it may be such ! Cor, whal a scene 
Is this around her! What sad memories come 

Dp, from the past, to greet her! And, before, 

( ), what a. dark and dreary prospect opens! 

Whal can she say t<> me, -or I to her?" 

'Thus pleaded my heart Cor her. Then I spake, — 

For something must be spoken, — of a trust. 

With which a Christian woman should resign 

Her loved and lost ones, — even though they M fallen, 

As her poor husband Cell, — to I lis high call, 
Who knoweth well how feeble is our frame, 
And "who remembereth that we are dust. 11 

Then spake 1 of her children, who had now 

No earthly lather their young feet to guide, 
And who on her sole arm must therefore lean 
For care and culture. To a mother's hand, 
And now to hers alone, they M look for hread. 
"Shouldsl thou not, then, lor these, lliy children's sake, 

With all the strength thy God hath given thee, 

Rear up the burden thai Mis mighty hand 
Hath laid upon thy spirit ? Shouldsl thou not 
Lift up thine eyes and heart to Him, and say, 
c Lord,heream I, and those whom thou hasl given me ! 
Help me, who feed thy rod, ne'er to complain 
( >f I Inn who hath appointed it ! < >, lead 
Me, and these little ones of mine, to Thee ; 
14 



210 OCCASIONAL. 

And may we all, in Thee, a Father find, 

Since he who was their earthly father 's gone ! ' 

Yea, widowed mourner, though bereft of him 

On whose kind arm thou leanedst in thy youth, 

Be not disconsolate, or overcome 

By a too deep affliction. Lift thy heart, — 

Lift up thine eyes ! " And she did lift them up ! 

Then, for the first time, lifted she her eyes, — 

They were the maudlin eyes of drunkenness ! 

She was, indeed, " o'ercome," — but not with grief! 

Rum was the " rod " that she was bowing under ! 

Yes ! that poor widowed one, who, two days since, — 

Nay, not two days ! — had seen her husband borne 

To the low house appointed for all living, — 

A victim and a trophy of " the trade," — 

Her little children hungering for the bread 

That only she could give them, — one of them, 

Even then, receiving its whole stream of" life 

From her own bosom ! — at the very hour 

When he, who had commended her to God, 

Yea, and would yet commend her, was to come, 

To weep with them who wept, and kneel beside 

The robbed and wounded, — come to stanch the blood, 

And pour in oil and wine, — that woman, then, 

Was so profoundly steeped in what men make, 

And what the law of e'en this Christian land 

Allows expressly to be sold, and borne 

From house to house, and drunk in families, — 

And all this, as it says, " for public good," — 

That, while I sat beside her, from her breast, 

Her lap, her drunken arms, she let her babe 

Upon the hearth-stone fall ! 



TEMPERANCE TALE. 211 

Now, in all this, there is no poetry ; — 
The tale is simple fact, and simply told. 
The hand of God, — that painteth evening's clouds, 
The gloom of midnight, and the morning's glory, 
Who poureth round the death-bed of the just 
A light that prornpteth him with dying voice 
To cry, " O grave, where is thy victory ? " — 
Hath painted, with the pencil of events, 
This gloomy picture, and hath hung it up 
Within the chamber of my memory. 
I cannot copy it stronger than it is, 
Nay, nor yet as it is ! Yet there are those, 
To whom this tale of real life, — and death, — 
Thus simply told, without a single word 
Of denunciation, censure, or rebuke 
Towards those who made, or sold, or drank the death 
To soul and body that hath here been seen, 
Will give offence. Then spread it out, O God, 
My Judge, and his and hers, of whom 't is told, 
Yea, and the Judge of all who saw the man 
Go down into his grave, and led him down, 
By reaching forth their hand, with that in it 
Which he knew, and which they knew, would be death, — 
Spread out the tale, O God, as here it is, 
Upon that record from which all, at last, — 
I, and all those for whom I live and labor, 
My family, my flock, my age, my race, — 
Shall " in that day " be judged, — spread it all out, 
As I have written it, — as it hath lain 
For years, beneath thine own all-seeing eye, 
And let thy judgment, then, between me pass 
And those to whom I may have given offence, 



212 OCCASIONAL. 

Whether I write in hatred or in love, 

Whether they read in charity or not ! 

But, so do unto me, and to my house, 

And more, — if more than this of earthly woe 

Thou hast in store for one who fears thee not, — 

If I be let, by this world's fears or hopes, 

From speaking, while thou keep'st me in thy service, 

The word which thou commandest me to speak ! 

But give me, God of wisdom and of grace, 
Give me the wisdom, all thy words of truth 
And grace, with grace to speak. What is severe 
In manner, tone, or spirit, — help me soften, 
Till all my words become like his who spake 
For Thee as never man before had spoken, — 
In some good measure worthy of thy truth, — 
Thy truth that sanctifies and saves the soul ! 
But, to that truth, — while I 've a tongue to speak, 
A pen to write it, or a heart to feel 
Its beauty and its power, - O, let me ne'er 
Prove faithless ! To thy guiding hand, my God, 
I give this simple tale. While writing it, 
I 've been drawn nearer to thee. In thy courts, 
This day, I could not serve thee ; — for thy hand 
Hath gently touched me with infirmity ; — 
Upon thine altar, in my house, I lay 
This little offering. Accept it, Lord, 
With those that have been made thee in thine own ! 

Sunday, February 24th, 1839. 



VI. 



FUNEREAL PIECES 



215 



FUNEREAL PIECES. 

I. 

THE EXILE at BEAT. 

Ihs falchion flashed along the Nile;— 
His hosts he led through Alpine snows; — 

O'er Moscow's towers, that shook the while, 
His eagle flag unrolled, — and froze. 

I Ion- sloops he now, alone ; — nol one 
Of all the kings whose crowns he gave, 

Nor sire, nor brother, wile, nor son, 

Hath ever seen or sought his grave. 

Here sleeps lie now alone; — the Star, 

Thai led him on from crown to crown, 
1 lath sunk ; — the nations from afar 

(lazed, as it faded and wen! down. 
lie sleeps alone ; — (lie mountain cloud 

That night hangs round him, and the brea 
( >C morning scatters, is the shroud 
That wraps his martial Conn in death. 



216 OCCASIONAL. 

High is his couch ; — the ocean flood 
Far, far below by storms is curled, 

As round him heaved, while high he stood, 
A stormy and inconstant world. 

Hark ! Comes there from the Pyramids, 
And from Siberia's wastes of snow, 

And Europe's fields, a voice that bids 

The world he awed to mourn him ? — No ; - 

The only, the perpetual dirge, 

That 's heard here, is the sea-bird's cry, 

The mournful murmur of the surge, 

The cloud's deep voice, the wind's low sigh. 

1828. 



II. 



Written for the Obsequies of Dr. Gaspard Spurzheim, which were cele- 
brated in the Old South Church, Boston, November 17th, 1832. 

Stranger, there is bending o'er thee 

Many an eye with sorrow wet ; 
All our stricken hearts deplore thee ; 

Who, that knew thee, can forget ? 
Who forget what thou hast spoken ? 

Who, thine eye, — thy noble frame ? 
But that golden bowl is broken, 

In the greatness of thy fame. 



FUN BB B A I- PIECES. 217 

Autumn's leaves shall fall and wither 

On the spot where thou shall real ; 
'T is in love we hear thee thither, 

To thy mourning Mother's breast. 
For the stores of science brought us, 

For the charm thy goodness gave 
To the lessons thou hast taught us, 

Can we give thee but a grave ? 

Nature's priest, how pure and fervent 

Was thy worship at her shrine ! 
Friend of man, of God the servant, 

Advocate of truths divine, — 
Taught and charmed as by no other 

We have been, and hoped to be ; 
But, while waiting round thee, brother, 

For thy light, — 'tis dark with thee. 

Dark with thee? — No; thy Creator, 

All whose creatures and whose laws 
Thou didst love, shall give thee greater 

Light than earth's, as earth withdraws. 
To thy Cod thy godlike spirit 

Back we give, in filial trust ; 
Thy cold cfay, — we grieve to bear it 

To its chamber, — but we must. 



218 OCCASIONAL. 



III. 

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. F II 

E. C. S. to the Memory of her Sister. 

Dear sister ! we were little girls 

When we were standing by, 
With eyes brim full of melting pearls, 

To see our father die. 

Round our wet cheeks the ringlets curled, 
When last he kissed both of us ; 

And then we had not in the world 
A parent left to love us. 

But, from that memorable day, 
Have we not loved each other ? 

And have we not loved thee ? — O say, 
Dear mother of our mother ! 

For, then it was thine arms were flung 

Around the orphan girls, 
And to thy bosom have we clung, 

And thou hast combed our curls, 

And thou hast laid us in our bed, 
And knelt in prayer above us. — 

Blessings be on thine aged head ! 
It showed how thou didst love us. 



FUNEREAL PIECES. 219 

Sister, when thou wast made a wife 

And I was left her only, 
I thought I never, in my life, 

Could feel again so lonely. 

Yet soon I learned to look upon 

Thy husband as my brother ; 
And, O how bright that morning shone, 

When I saw thee a mother ! 

That was the last of all the suns 

That will look bright to me ; 
The loved, — the lost, — the buried ones 

Must now make room for thee ! 

One more look, ere thou goest to rest ! 

And let me see thee so, — 
Thine infant lying on thy breast, — 

A rose-bud on the snow. 

It weeps, — my dear dead sister, now 

Thou canst not hear its moan, — 
One kiss upon this marble brow ! 

O now I am alone ! 

1837. 



220 OCCASIONAL. 



IV. 

HER CHOSEN SPOT. 

She selected the place for her grave, in the new Cemetery at Worcester, 
while she felt herself sinking under the power of consumption. She 
was the first whose remains were laid in that beautiful resting-place of 
the dead. 

While yet she lived, she walked alone 
Among these shades. A voice divine 

Whispered, — " This spot shall be thine own ; 
Here shall thy wasting form recline, 
Beneath the shadow of this pine." 

" Thy will be done ! " the sufferer said. — 
This spot was hallowed from that hour ; 
And, in her eyes, the evening's shade 
And morning's dew this green spot made 
More lovely than her bridal bower. 

By the pale moon, — herself more pale 
And spirit-like, — these walks she trod ; 

And, while no voice, from swell or vale, 
Was heard, she knelt upon this sod 
And gave her spirit back to God. 

That spirit, with an angel's wings, 

Went up from the young mother's bed. 
So, heavenward, soars the lark and sings; — 
She 's lost to earth and earthly things ; — 
But " weep not, for she is not dead, 



FUNEREAL PIECES. 221 

She sleepeth ! " — Yea, she sleepeth here, 
The first that in these grounds hath slept. 

This grave, first watered with the tear 
That child or widowed man hath wept, 
Shall be by heavenly watchmen kept. 

The babe that lay on her cold breast, — 

A rose-bud, dropped on drifted snow, — 
Its young hand in its father's pressed, 
Shall learn that she, who first caressed 
Its infant cheek, now sleeps below. 

And often shall he come alone, 

When not a sound but evening's sigh 
Is heard, and, bowing by the stone 
That bears his mother's name, with none 
But God and guardian angels nigh, 

Shall say, — " This was my mother's choice 
For her own grave, — O, be it mine ! 

Even now, methinks, I hear her voice 
Calling me hence, in the divine 
And mournful whisper of this pine." 

1838. 



222 OCCASIONAL, 



LYDIA. 

Miss Lydia B. Gates, only daughter of Colonel William Gates, of the 
United States Army, died at Fort Columbus, Governor's Island, New 
York, February 28th, 1839, aged 19. 

I saw her mother's eye of love 

As gently on her rest, 
As falls the light of evening's sun 

Upon a lily's breast. 
And the daughter to the mother raised 

Her calm and loving eye, 
As a lake, among its sheltering hills, 

Looks upward to the sky. 

I 've seen a swelling rose-bud hang 

Upon its parent stem, 
Just opening to the light, and graced 

With many a dewy gem, 
And, ere that bud had spread its leaves 

And thrown its fragrance round, 
I 've seen it perish on its stem, 

And drop upon the ground. 

So, in her yet unfolding bloom, 

Hath Lydia felt the blast ; 
A worm unseen hath done its work ; — 

To earth the bud is cast, 



FUNEREAL PIECES. 223 

And on her lowly resting-place, — 

As on the rose-bud's bed 
Drops from the parent tree are showered, — 

Her parents' tears are shed. 

And other eyes there are that loved 

Upon that bud to rest ; 
There 's one who long had hoped to wear 

The rose upon his breast ; 
Who 'd watched and waited lovingly 

Till it was fully blown, 
And who had e'en put forth his hand, 

To pluck it as his own. 

A stronger hand than his that flower 

Hath gathered from its tree ! 
And borne it hence, in Paradise 

To bloom immortally ; 
And all that breathe the fragance there 

That its young leaves exhale, 
It shall remind of Sharon's rose, — 

The lily of the vale. 

The soldier father have I seen 

Suppress a struggling sigh, 
And a tear, whene'er he spoke of her, 

Stood trembling in his eye ; — 
No other daughter, in his arms, 

Had ever slept, a child, 
No other daughter, on his knee, 

Had ever sat and smiled. 



22 I OCCASIONAL, 

And he was i-ii- away Prom her, 

Bui for her had hii fears, 
Ami anxious thoughts, upon his brow, 

I fad lefl the stamp of vear 
And now the grave hath, f i his hand, 

Received its sacred trust, 
And father's, mother's, lover's ti 

I rave mingled with her dust. 

Peace i<> her dusl ' for, surely, peace 

I [er gentle spirit Know 
A round her narrow house, on earth, 

The ni'di! wind s;idl\ Mow , 

lint heavenly airs, thai through iii<- I pee 

( If life for ever play, 
A iv breathing on her spirit's brow, 

To dry her tears away. 

1839, 



\ I. 



w i hi. ii inr i he Funeral Bon lot In ( lomroemoratlon of iho Lift and Char 
(icier hi » 'inn lis Follon, boforo tho Rfaaaachuaetti \nu slavery Boolaty, 
\|.ui i . i ii. L840, 

O, not lor ilit-c wo weep ; we weep 
For her, whoso Lone and long caress, 

And widow's tears, from fountains deep, 
Fall <>n the earh fatherles i. 



I'll N ERE A L ri BO BB, 225 

'T i for ourselves we mourn ; we mourn 

( )|ir Ul"lll«'d Im»|><":, OUT wisllOS CI'OS IC<1, 

Thy i rength, thai hath our burdens borne, 
Thy love, thy smile, thy counsels lust. 

'T is for llio slave wu si^li;- wo i-li 
To I 111 llU IIkmi sleepes! on ;i shore 

Where thy oalm voice and beaming eye 
Shall plead ili<- bondman 1 ! oause no more. 

'T i ■■• for our land we grieve ; we grieve 
Thai Freedom's fane, I levotion's shrine, 

And Faith's fresh altar, thou shouldsl Leave, 
Ami they all lose b sou] like thine. 

A oul like Ihine, - so I rue ;i soul, 
Wife, friends, our land, the woj Id, must mi 

The Wttlors imt lliy corse in.iy roll, — 
Bui thy pure spirit is in Miss. 



VII 



a HlHTKlt'M tiiodciith OVEH a BROTHER'! GRAVE. 

I 1 1; sleeps in peace ! I )cnlli's cold eclipBC 

Mi radianl eyes hath shrouded o'er, 
And slander's poison, from the lips 
< )f woman, <»n his heart no more 
I )istils, and burns it to its coir. 
15 



226 OCCASIONAL. 

He sleeps in peace ! The noble spirit 
That beamed forth from his living brow, 

Prompt, at the shrine of real merit, 
With reverence and with truth to bow, 
Is, by false tongues, not troubled now. 

He sleeps in peace ! And, while he sleeps, 
He dreams not of earth's loves or strifes ; 

The tears a sister for him weeps, — 

He knows not that they 're not his wife's ! 
His thoughts are all another life's. 

I hope he knows not that the hand 
Once given to him is now another's ; 

I know, the flame that once it fanned 
Had all gone out. I know my brother's 
Last thoughts were of my love and mother's. 

I hope he knows not that his child 

Hears not nor knows its father's name. 

Keep its young spirit undefiled 
And worthy of its father's fame, 
O Thou, from whom its spirit came ! 

Thou Father of the fatherless, 

The mantle that my brother wore, — 

The robe of truth and faithfulness, — 
Keep, for his infant, in thy store ; 
My brother hath left nothing more ! 



FUNEREAL PI EC IIS. 227 

That mantle ! — men had seen him throw 
It amply round him ere it fell ! 

Peace, brother, 't is as white as snow ; 
No one of all on earth that dwell 
Can stain what once became thee well. 

In peace thou sleepest ; — through the bars 

Of its dim cell thy spirit fled ; 
And now thy sister and the stars 

Their tears of dew and pity shed, 

Heart-broken brother, on thy bed. 

1840. 



VIII. 

MY FATHER, MOTHER, BROTHERS, SISTERS. 

They are all gone, but one. — 

A daughter and a son 
Were, from my parents, early taken away ; 

And my own childhood's joy 

Was darkened when, a boy, 
I saw them, in their coffins as they lay. 

To manhood had I grown ; 

And children of my own 
Were gathering round me, when my mother died. 

I saw not her cold clay, 

When it was borne away 
And buried by her little children's side, 



228 OCCASIONAL. 

Beneath the now green sod. — 

She led me first to God ; 
Her words and prayers were my young spirit's dew. 

For, when she used to leave 

The fireside, every eve, 
I knew it was for prayer that she withdrew. 

That dew, that blessed my youth, — 

Her holy love, her truth, 
Her spirit of devotion, and the tears 

That she could not suppress, — 

Hath never ceased to bless 
My soul, nor will it, through eternal years. 

How often has the thought 

Of my mourned mother brought 
Peace to my troubled spirit, and new power 

The tempter to repel ! 

Mother, thou knowest well 
That thou hast blessed me since thy mortal hour ! 

Two younger sisters then, 

Both wives of worthy men, 
After each one of them had been a mother, 

Were touched by the cold hand, 

And to the spirit-land, 
In quick succession, followed one the other. 



FUNEREAL PIECES. 229 

To neither could I speak ; 

Nor, on the marble cheek 
Of either, drop a mourning brother's tear. — 

The husband of the one, 

The other's only son, 
Have since been borne away upon the bier. 

Lake Erie's waters cold 

Over a brother rolled : 
The day was bright ; the lake scarce felt a breeze ; 

While / have yet been spared, 

Though dangers I have dared, 
Storms, rocks, and pirates in the Grecian seas. 

Dear brother ! in my dreams 

Thy floating body seems 
To lift its hand, and my poor aid implore ! 

I 'm wakened by my weeping, 

And know that thou art sleeping 
In thy lone grave, on low Sandusky's shore. 

I had one brother more, 

The last my mother bore ; 
He was a boy when forth I went to roam. 

He delved upon the farm ; 

Our father's aged arm 
Leaned upon him, — his hope, his prop, — at home. 



230 OCCASIONAL. 

He sunk beneath the weight 

Of manly cares. A great 
And growing name he left for strength and worth. 

'T was but five months ago ! 

My father felt the blow, 
And now he, too, has passed away from earth. 

O, could I but have heard 

One parting, blessing word 
From all these dying loved ones ! But the pall, 

Unseen by me, was thrown, 

And the green turf hath grown, 
Wet by no tear of mine, over them all ; — 

All, but the last : — thank God ! 

Before the heavy clod 
Fell on his coffin, to its side I drew ; 

And, though the thin, white hair 

Lay, like the hoar frost, there, 
My hand his forehead pressed, that felt like freez- 
ing dew. 

It had been marked with care, 

It had been bowed in prayer, 
For many a year ere death upon it stole.' 

O'er it I bent alone. 

'T was love's forsaken throne, 
And its death chill went to my very soul ! 



FUNEREAL PIECES. 231 

Of all am I bereft ! 

Only one sister left, — 
A weeping willow, that to many a blast ^ 

Hath bowed her slender form. — 

O God, hold back the storm 
That thou shalt send to break her down, at last! 

Father, to thee I bow ! 

In very love hast thou 
Thy children summoned from earth's toils and tears. 

Uphold me by thy strength, 

Until I join, at length, 
The friends thou gavest to my earliest years. 

1840. 



VII. 

HYMNS AND ODES 

FOR 

ANNIVERSARY, CENTENNIAL, 

AND OTHER 

CELEBRATIONS. 



235 



HYMNS AND ODES. 
I. 

Written for the Celebration of Washington's Birth-day by the Washington 
Benevolent Society of Newbury port, February 22d, 1813. 

On the birth-day of Time, the young monarch of light 
With his beams waked from slumber the virgin cre- 
ation ; — 
So, dispelling the gloom of Cimmerian night, 
The lustre of Washington burst on our nation. 
And this is the morn 
The Hero was born, 
Whose virtues shall History's pages adorn ; 
And his spirit awakes from the sleep of the grave, 
To meet with his friends ; — for his friends are the brave. 

The same spirit descends, borne on pinions of light, 

That guided to fame our immortal commander ; 
O'er the ashes of Moscow she urges her flight, 
And smiles while she hovers around Alexander. 
She points to his rest 
In the bowers of the blest, 
Where the sunshine of peace warms the patriot's 
breast ; 
Where Washington, waked from the sleep of the grave, 
Waits to welcome his friend ; — for his friend is the 
J>rave. 



236 OCCASIONAL. 

The Serpent of France, nursed on carnage and spoil, 
In whose poisonous train war and pestilence follow, 
In agony writhes his voluminous coil, 

Like the Python, assailed by the shafts of Apollo. 
And, while patriot zeal 
Gives the monster to feel 
The lance of KoutousofT and Wellington's steel, 
The spirit of Washington wakes from his grave, 
To rejoice with his friends; — for his friends are the 
brave. 

Though Columbia, ingulfed in a vortex "of blood, 
Hurls her gauntlet, unarmed, at the proud Queen of 
Ocean ; — 
Let thy spirit, great Hero, descend on the flood, 

And rescue thy child from the mighty commotion. — 
And, with boundless acclaim, 
We '11 ascribe to thy name 
All that 's sacred in honor, or lasting in fame ; 
Till the fields of our fathers be Liberty's grave, 
And virtue expire in the breast of the brave. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 237 



IT 



Written for the Washington Benevolent Society's Celebration, in Boston, 
February 22d, 1814. 

Hark ! 't is the children of Washington, pouring 
The full tide of song to the conqueror's praise, 
Whose brows our young eagle, triumphantly soaring 
From the dun smoke of battle, encircled with bays. 

And while the choral song 

Floats on the air along, 
Blending the tones of the mellowing strain, 

Bright o'er the melting soul 

New scenes of glory roll, 
Glory that spreads its broad blaze o'er the main. 

Hail to the brave, who, in language of thunder, 

Borne on the foam-crested billows to war, 
Claim of their foe no inglorious plunder, — 
The trident of Neptune and Victory's car. 

And, while Columbia's stars 

Wave o'er her gallant tars, 
Bounding in triumph along the blue deep, 

See, o'er the bloody wave, 

Many a Briton's grave, 
The proud Queen of Ocean disconsolate weep. 



238 OCCASIONAL. 

Hail to yon orient star, that adorning 

And gilding the skies with its ravishing light, 

Blazes unquenched on the forehead of morning, 

And dispels the cold gloom of oppression and night. 
'T is by that ruddy glow- 
Slaves and their tyrant know 

Fieedom and Hope to the world have returned; 
So shone the pilot star, 
Hailed from the east afar, 

That over the manger of Bethlehem burned. 

Peace to the dust, that in silence reposes 

Beneath the dark boughs of the cypress and yew ; 
Let spring deck the spot with her earliest roses, 
And heaven wash their leaves in its holiest dew. 

Calm as the hero's soul, 

Let the Potomac roll, 
Watering the willow that over him weeps, 

And, from his glassy wave, 

Softly reflect the grave 
Where all that was mortal of Washington sleeps. 

Hail, holy shade ! we would proudly inherit 

The flame that once deigned in thy bosom to glow, 
While yet but one spark of thy patriot spirit, , 
Thy godlike benevolence, lingers below. 

Ne'er let thy favorite tree, 

Sacred to Liberty, 
By anarchy's sulphury sirocco be riven ; 

But, in immortal bloom, 

Rise o'er its planter's tomb, 
Rich with perfume as the breezes of heaven. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 239 

III. 

Written for the Celebration of American Independence, in Boston, July 4th, 
1822. 

Day of glory ! welcome day ! 
Freedom's banners greet thy ray ; 
See ! how cheerfully they play 

With thy morning breeze, 
On the rocks where pilgrims kneeled, 
On the heights where squadrons wheeled, 
When a tyrant's thunder pealed 

O'er the trembling seas. 

God of armies ! did thy " stars 
In their courses " smite his cars, 
Blast his arm, and wrest his bars 

From the heaving tide ? 
On our standard, lo ! they burn, 
And, when days like this return, 
Sparkle o'er the soldier's urn 

Who for freedom died. 

God of peace ! — whose spirit fills 
All the echoes of our hills, 
All the murmurs of our rills, 

Now the storm is o'er ; — 
O, let freemen be our sons ; 
And let future Washingtons 
Rise, to lead their valiant ones, 

Till there 's war no more. 



240 OCCASIONAL. 

By the patriot's hallowed rest, 
By the warrior's gory breast, — 
Never let our graves be pressed 

By a despot's throne ; 
By the Pilgrims' toils and cares, 
By their battles and their prayers, 
By their ashes, — let our heirs 

Bow to Thee alone. 



IV, 



Written for the Anniversary of the Pilgrim Society, celebrated at Ply- 
mouth, December 22d, 1824. 

The Pilgrim Fathers, — where are they ? — 
The waves that brought them o'er 
Still roll in the bay, and throw their spray 

As they break along the shore ; 
Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day 
When the Mayflower moored below, 
When the sea around was black wth storms, 
And white the shore with snow. 
Chorus. Still roll in the bay, as they rolled that day, &c. 

The mists, that wrapped the Pilgrim's sleep, 
Still brood upon the tide ; 
And his rocks yet keep their watch by the deep, 
To stay its waves of pride. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 241 

But the snow-white sail, that he gave to the gale 
When the heavens looked dark, is gone ; — 
As an angePs wing, through an opening cloud, 
Is seen, and then withdrawn. 
Chorus. It is gone from the bay, where it spread that 
day, &c. 

The Pilgrim exile, — sainted name ! 
The hill, whose icy brow 
Rejoiced, when he came, in the morning's flame, 

In the morning's flame burns now. 
And the moon's cold light, as it lay that night 

On the hill-side and the sea, 
Still lies where he laid his houseless head ; — 
But the Pilgrim, — where is he ? 
Chorus. He is not in the bay, as he was that day, &c. 

The Pilgrim Fathers are at rest ; 
When Summer 's throned on high, 
And the world's warm breast is in verdure drest, 

Go, stand on the hill where they lie. 
The earliest ray of the golden day 
On that hallowed spot is cast ; 
And the evening sun, as he leaves the world, 
Looks kindly on that spot last. 
Chorus. Not such was the ray, that he shed that day,&c. 

The Pilgrim spirit has not fled ; 
It walks in noon's broad light ; 
And it watches the bed of the glorious dead, 
With the holy stars, by night. 
16 



242 OCCASIONAL. 

It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 

And shall guard this ice-bound shore, 
Till the waves of tin: bay, where the Mayflower lay, 
Shall foam and freeze no more. 
Chorus. It watches the bed of the brave who have bled, 
&c. 



Written for the Laying of the Corner Btone of the Banker Hill Monument, 
June 17th, 1825. 

O, is not this a holy spot ! 

'T is the high place of Freedom's birth ! 
God of our fathers ! is it not 

The holiest spot of all the earth ? 

Quenched is thy flame on Horcb's side ; 

The robber roams o'er Sinai now ; 
And those old men, thy seers, abide 

No more on Zion's mournful brow. 

But on this hill thou, Lord, hast dwelt, 

Since round its head the war-cloud curled, 

And wrapped our fathers, where they knelt 
In prayer and battle for a world. 

Here sleeps their dust ; 't is holy ground ; 

And we, the children of the brave, 
From the four winds are gathered round. 

To lay our offering on their grave. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 243 

Free as the winds around us blow, 
Free as the waves below us spread, 

We rear a pile, that long shall throw 
Its shadow on their sacred bed. 

But on their deeds no shade shall fall, 
While o'er their couch thy sun shall flame ; 

Thine ear was bowed to hear their call, 
And thy right hand shall guard their fame. 



VI. 

WARREN'S ADDRESS TO THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS. 
A Song for the Table, on the same Occasion. 

Stand ! the ground 's your own, my braves ! 
Will ye give it up to slaves ? 
Will ye look for greener graves ? 

Hope ye mercy still ? 
What 's the mercy despots feel ? 
Hear it in that battle-peal ! 
Read it on yon bristling steel ! 

Ask it, — ye who will. 

Fear ye foes who kill for hire ? 
Will ye to your homes retire ? 
Look behind you ! they 're a-fire ! 



244 OCCASIONAL. 

And, before you, see 
Who have done it ! — From the vale 
On they come ! — And will ye quail ?■ 
Leaden rain and iron hail 

Let their welcome be ! 

In the God of battles trust ! 

Die we may, — and die we must ; — 

But, O, where can dust to dust 

Be consigned so well, 
As where Heaven its dews shall shed 
On the martyred patriot's bed, 
And the rocks shall raise their head, 

Of his deeds to tell ! 



VII. 

Written for the Charlestown Centennial Celebration, June 17th, 1830. 

Two hundred years ! — two hundred years ! 

How much of human power and pride, 
What glorious hopes, what gloomy fears, ' 

Have sunk beneath their noiseless tide ! 

The red man, at his horrid rite, 

Seen by the stars at night's cold noon, 

His bark canoe, its track of light 

Left on the wave beneath the moon, — 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 245 

His dance, his yell, his council-fire, 

The altar where his victim lay, 
His death-song, and his funeral pyre, 

That still, strong tide hath borne away. 

And that pale Pilgrim band is gone, 

That, on this shore, with trembling trod, 

Ready to faint, yet bearing on 
The ark of freedom and of God. 

And war, — that, since, o'er ocean came, 
And thundered loud from yonder hill, 

And wrapped its foot in sheets of flame, 
To blast that ark, — its storm is still. 

Chief, sachem, sage, bards, heroes, seers, 

That live in story and in song, 
Time, for the last two hundred years, 

Has raised, and shown, and swept along. 

'T is like a dream when one awakes, — 

This vision of the scenes of old ; 
'T is like the moon when morning breaks, 

'T is like a tale round watch-fires told. 

Then what are we ? — then what are we ? 

Yes, when two hundred years have rolled 
O'er our green graves, our names shall be 

A morning dream, a tale that 's told. 



246 OCCASIONAL. 

God of our fathers, — in whose sight 
The thousand years, that sweep away 

Man, and the traces of his might, 

Are but the break and close of day, — 

Grant us that love of truth sublime, 
That love of goodness and of thee, 

That makes thy children, in all time, 
To share thine own eternity. 



VIII. 

Written for the Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Boston, 
September 17th, 1830. 

Break forth in song, ye trees, 
As, through your tops, the breeze 

Sweeps from the sea ! 
For, on its rushing wings, 
To your cool shades and springs, 
That breeze a people brings, 

Exiled though free. 

Ye sister hills, lay down 
Of ancient oaks your crown, 

In homage due ; — 
These are the great of earth, 
Great, not by kingly birth, 
Great in their well proved worth, 

Firm hearts and true. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 247 

These are the living lights, 

That from your bold, green heights, 

Shall shine afar, 
T ; hey who name the name 
Of Freedom, toward the flame 
Come, as the Magi came 

Toward Bethlehem's star. 

Gone are those great and good, 
Who here, in peril, stood 

And raised their hymn. 
Peace to the reverend dead ! 
The light, that on their head 
Two hundred years have shed, 

Shall ne'er grow dim. 

Ye temples, that to God 
Rise where our fathers trod, 

Guard well your trust, — 
The faith, that dared the sea, 
The truth, that made them free, 
Their cherished purity, 

Their garnered dust. 

Thou high and holy One, 
Whose care for sire and son 

All nature fills, 
While day shall break and close, 
While night her crescent shows, 
O, let thy light repose 

On these our hills. 



248 OCCASIONAL. 



IX 



Written for the Celebration of the Centennial Anniversary of the Birth-day 
of George Washington, Boston, February 22d, 1832. 

To Thee, beneath whose eye 

Each circling century- 
Obedient rolls, 

Our nation, in its prime, 

Looked with a faith sublime, 

And trusted, in " the time 
That tried men's souls," — 

When, from this gate of heaven,* 
People and priest were driven 

By fire and sword, 
And, where thy saints had prayed, 
The harnessed war-horse neighed, 
And horsemen's trumpets brayed 

In harsh accord. 

Nor was our fathers' trust, 
Thou Mighty One and Just, 

* The Old South Church was taken possession of by the 
British, while they held Boston, and converted into barracks for 
the cavalry, the pews being cut up for fuel, or used in con- 
structing stalls for their horses. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 249 

Then put to shame ; 
" Up to the hills," for light, 
Looked they in peril's night, 
And, from yon guardian height,* 

Deliverance came. 

There, like an angel form, 
Sent down to still a storm, 

Stood Washington ! 
Clouds broke and rolled away ; 
Foes fled in pale dismay ; 
Wreathed were his brows with bay, 

When war was done. 

God of our sires and sons, 
Let other Washingtons 

Our country bless, 
And, like the brave and wise 
Of by-gone centuries, 
Show that true greatness lies 

In righteousness. 



* From his position on Dorchester Heights, that overlook the 
town, General Washington succeeded in compelling the British 
forces to evacuate Boston. 



250 OCCASIONAL. 



X. 



Written for the Celebration of the Sixtieth Anniversary of the Battle of 
Lexington, April 20th,* 1835. 

Long, in a nameless grave, 
Bones of the true and brave ! 

Have ye reposed. 
This day, our hands hav dressed, 
This day, our prayers have blessed 
A chamber for your rest ; 

And now 't is closed. 

Sleep on, ye slaughtered ones ! 
Your spirit, in your sons, 

Shall guard your dust, 
While winter comes in gloom, 
While spring returns with bloom, 
Nay, — till this honored tomb 

Gives up its trust. 

When war's first blast was heard, 
These men stood forth to guard 

Thy house, O God ! 
And now thy house shall keep 
Its vigils where they sleep, 
And long its shadow sweep 

O'er their green sod. 

* The anniversary of the battle, the IDth, occurring on Sun- 
day, this celebration took place on the following day. 



ANNIVERSARY AND CENTENNIAL. 251 

In morning's prime they bled ; 
And morning finds their bed 

With tears all wet ; 
Tears that thy hosts of light, 
Rising in order bright, 
To watch their tomb all night, 

Shed for them yet. 

Nought shall their slumber break ; 
For " they shall not awake, 

Nor yet be raised 
Out of their sleep," before 
Thy heavens, now arching o'er 
Their couch, shall be no more. — 

THY NAME BE PRAISED ! 



XI. 



Written for the Second Centennial Celebration of the Settlement of Ded- 
ham, September 21st, 1836. 

Not now, O God, beneath the trees 

That shade this plain, at night's cold noon 

To Indian war-songs load the breeze, 
Or wolves sit howling to the moon. 

The foes, the fears, our fathers felt 
Have, with our fathers, passed away ; 

And where, in their dark hours, they knelt, 
We come to praise thee and to pray. 



252 OCCASIONAL. 

We praise thee that thou plantedst them, 

And mad'st thy heavens drop down their dew. 

We pray that, shooting from their stem, 
We long may flourish where they grew. 

And, Father, leave us not alone ; — 

Thou hast been, and art still our trust ; — 

Be thou our fortress, till our own 
Shall mingle with our fathers' dust. 



VIII. 



PATRIOTIC AND POLITICAL 



PIECES. 



255 



PATRIOTIC AND POLITICAL. 
I. 



THE PORTRAIT. 



Delivered before the Washington Benevolent Society, of Newburyport, 
October 27th, 1812. 



Why does the eye, with greater pleasure, rest 
On the proud oak, in vernal honors drest, 
When sultry gales, that to his arms repair, 
Are cooled and freshened, while they linger there ; 
Than when his fading robes are seared, and cast 
On the cold mercy of November's blast ? — 
Why on the rose, when first her bosom spreads 
To drink the dew that summer's evening sheds, 
Or when she blushes, on her native thorn, 
To meet the kisses of the smiling morn ; 
Than when her leaves, neglected, fall around, 
Flit on the breeze, or wither on the ground ? — 
Why on Apollo, when his coursers rise, 
And breathe on man the ardor of the skies ; 
Than when they stoop, their fervid limbs to rest, 
And drink the cooling waters of the west ? — 
And why on man, when buoyant hope beats high, 
Health on his cheek, and lustre in his eye, 



256 n(( ' V »1 ON AI.. 

In every limb when youth and vigor dwell, 
Brace every nerve, and every muscle swell ; 
Than when liis frame displays the ruthless rage 
Of care, and sorrow, and disease, and age ? — 
Why, I'n! because the Author of the mind, 
Enthroned in glory, and in lighl enshrined, 
When first he beamed, upon the breathing clay, 
The light divine of intellectual day, — 
Perfect himself, infused thai spark of fire, 
That still pursues its nature to aspire, 

And warms the bosom with B generOUS glow, 

Wlu ne'er il meets perfection here below, 
l>ui sinks within us, with expiring ray, 
When doomed to dwell on emblems ofdecaj 

And, if the mind can thus, delighted, scan 
A tree, — a flower, — the orb of day, — a man; 

Mow must it swell, when from the WOmb of earth 
It stes a nation Vl bursting into birth, 11 

And, by enchantment, planting on her strand 
A dag, thai waving o*er the sea and land. 

By stripes and stars, o\\ silken lolds unfurled. 

Displays her strength and splendor to the world I - 
Hut if this prospect cheers the hearl of man. 
Whether he dwells in England or Japan, 
Whether he hears the billowy Baltic roar. 
Or courts the breeze ow CoromandePs shore ; 

What a Strong eurrent of delight must roll, 
Resistless, e'er the Veteran soldier's soul. 
Who, in the volume of that nation's fame, 
l>\ Clio written, reads his lieneral's name ! — 



Til E PORTB \ IT. k J t ",7 

Ami if, my friends, the hardy soldier's pride 
Would swell Ins breast, with Buch a generous tide, 
While musing <>n his country, while he saw 
The harmonious couple, Libert) and Law, 
Attend his person wheresoever he roved, 

And shield, at home, llie family he loved, — 

Thai wife, who, yielding to her country's call, 

Resigned her husband, and in him her all ; — 

Thai child, who since upon his knees has hung, 
And learned the battle from his father's tongue, 

And, while the soldier proudly said, " My son, 

That," — pointing to his musket, — "thai 's the gun 

That gave yon freedom, and when you 're a man. 

Use it I'm- me, when I no longer can," — 

Would weep to hear his sire's prophetic sigh, 

And see the tear that treinhled in his eye ; — 

If such a breasl would swell with such a tide. 

If sueh a heart would glow with siicdi a pride, 

If such an fy<" in tears el' joy would melt, 

What, while en earth, must WASHINGTON have felt \ 

Thou spotless patriot ! thou illustrious man ! 

Methinks, while yet on earth, thy heaven began ; 
For is there pleasure purer, more refined, 

More worthy of thine own ethereal mind, 

Than thrilled, with lively transport, through thy frame, 

And played around thy heart, with lamhent llame. 

To see Columbia, guided I>\ thy hand, 

Plant, in the bosom of thy native land, 
That tree that tlourished so divinely fair, 

And took sueh root, beneath thy fostering care, 
17 



258 OCCASIONAL. 

As soon o'er half a continent to spread 
Its fragrant leaves, and give a nation shade ; — 
That tree, whose root descended from the skies, 
That grows by culture, but neglected dies, 
That tree, beneath whose boughs thy spirit fled, 
That tree, whose fading leaves deplore the dead ? 
And now, great Father of thy Country, say, 
Ere angels bore thee to the fields of day, 
Did not thine eye, with holy rapture, view 
That Tree of Liberty, while yet it grew 
Vigorous and green ? — And did it not impart, 
To every fibre of thy godlike heart, 
A joy, while waving o'er thy mortal brow, 
Next to the amaranth, that shades thee now ? 

That hero 's dead! — And does his country mourn, 
Embalm his ashes in a golden urn, 
And in a sculptured vault the relics lay, 
Where fires, like Vesta's, emulate the day 
With light divine, as through its silent halls 
The holy rays reflect from porphyry walls ? — 
Do temples, arched with Parian marble, rise 
In regal pomp, beneath these western skies, 
And on their front, emblazoned by the sun, 
Give to the world the name of Washington ? r- 
Breathes he in marble, in her senate's hall ? 
Lives he in bronze, within her Capitol ? 
Does the imperial mausoleum show, 
In proud magnificence, her depth of woe ? 
And do her children, with a holy zeal, 
From rough St. Lawrence to the warm Mobile, 



THE PORTRAIT. 259 

For pilgrim's staff, their friends, their home resign, 

And, like the Arab to Mohammed's shrine, 

To that majestic monument repair, 

And, for their country, pour a pilgrim's prayer ? 

Shame on that country ! everlasting shame ! 
She bids no blazing sunbeam write his name ; 
His sacred ashes consecrate no urn ; 
No vault is sculptured, and no vestals mourn ; 
No marble temple meets the rising day ; 
No obelisk reflects the evening ray ; 
Those lips, long hushed in death, among his sons 
Nor smile in marble, nor yet breathe in bronze ; 
No solemn anthem o'er his tomb is sung ; 
No prayer is heard there, from a pilgrim's tongue! — 
But o'er the grave, where Vernon's hero sleeps, 
The tall grass sighs, the waving willow weeps ; 
And, while the pale moon trembles through the trees, 
That bend and rustle to the nightly breeze, 
The bird of night, — the only mourner there, — 
Pours on the chilling wind her solemn air ; 
While flows Potomac silently along, 
And listens to her melancholy song. 

And shall, my friends, the venerable dust, 
That once enshrined the spirit of the just, 
Slumber forgotten ? — Shall no patriot's tear, 
Warm as the life-blood, trickle on his bier, 
And soothe his mighty shade, that hovers nigh, 
To catch the tear, and mingle with the sigh, 



260 OCCASIONAL. 

That flows for him, or breaks the silence dread, 

That fills the oblivious mansion of the dead ? 

Nay, — shall the freemen whom his valor saved, 

For whom, in life, a thousand deaths he braved, 

And on whose sons, in rich profusion, poured 

The joys of peace, the trophies of his sword, 

In the black robes of infamy be drest, 

Because their saviour's bones unhonored rest ; — 

And yet shall we, who meet with kindred minds, 

Whom honor animates, and friendship binds ; — 

We, through whose veins, — as warmly as the blood 

That warms our hearts, — rolls a congenial flood 

Of fearless indignation, that belongs 

To federal freemen, under federal wrongs ; — 

Shall we, on whom his sacred mantle rests, 

Who wear the badge * of union on our breasts ; — 

Shall we neglect the few pale flowers that bloom, 

And shed their fragrance, on our father's tomb, 

Braving, while rooted there, thy tempest rude, 

And all thy wintry frosts, Ingratitude ? 

Then let each string that wakes, within my soul, — 

Untaught by reason, and above control, — 

A tone, accordant with the notes sublime, 

That trembling float upon the tide of time, 

Blown from the trump of Fame, to bear along " 

The warrior's valor, and the poet's song, 

Cease its vibration ; — let oblivion, then, 

That first of federalists, that first of men, 

Hide from my view for ever ; — let no joy 

Beam on my days ; — let blighting blasts destroy 

* A white rose, tied with a blue ribbon. 



THE PORTRAIT. 261 

My every hope ; — here let me live accursed, 
The best my enemies, my friends the worst ; — 
And when Death's icy touch shall hush my tongue, 
Be no grave opened, and no requiem sung ; 
But, from Earth's consecrated bosom thrust, 
Let asps and adders coil upon my dust ! 

Then, while the hours pursue their viewless flight, 
And roll along the sable car of night, 
Let us, my friends, turn back our eyes, and gaze 
On the bright orbs that gilded other days ; 
Each in his sphere, revolving round the sun, 
That gave them warmth and lustre, — Washington. 
But, while we see them in their orbits roll, 
Bright as the stars, unshaken as the pole, 
Pure as the dew, as summer's evening mild, 
By no cloud shaded, by no lust defiled, 
While all around their common centre sweep, 
Illume the earth, or blaze along the deep, 
Who, but exclaims, beneath the o'erwhelming light, 
" Visions of Glory, spare my aching sight ! " * 

Thou hoary monarch ! since thy tyrant hand 
First shook o'er earth thy sceptre and thy sand, 
Or waved thy sithe, commissioned to destroy, 
O'er Balbec's columns, or the towers of Troy, — 
Nay, since in youth, thou bad'st the rosy hours 
Smile upon Adam, under Eden's bowers, 
Hadst thou e'er seen a clime, more blest than this, 
More richly fraught with beauty and with bliss ? 

* Gray. 



262 OCCASIONAL. 

E'er seen a brighter constellation glow, 

With all thai *s pure and dignified holow, 

Than moved, harmonious, round thai wondrous man, 

Whose i\vcds of glory with his life began, 

Whose name, the proudesl on thj proudest page, 

Shall lill with admiration everj agel 

Then, with such rays as gild the morning, shone, 
In peerless pomp, thy genius, Hamilton ! 
Sublime as heaven, and vigorous as Bubiime, 
IK-, in his flight, outstripped the march of 'rime, 
Plucked from each age the producl of each soil, 
Ami o'er thy country poured the generous spoil. 
By limit- own labors, without aid from Pram 
Wo saw the splendid fabric of finance, — 

Beneath whoso dome, confusion, in thy hands, 

Order became ; and (even as did the sands, 

O'er which the waters oi' Puctolus rolled. 

When Midas touched them,) paper turned to gold, — 

At once, the boast and wonder of mankind, 

Rise al thy spoil, — the erealure of thy mind. 
Thus, when Amphion left Cithffiron's shade, 
Beside Unionus" Wave the shepherd strayed ; 
And, as he roamed in solilnde along. 

And charmed the oar of Silence with a song. 

Sweeping, in symphony, his tuneful siring, 
That flung its wild notes on the Zephyr's wing, 
The walls of Thehes with many a glittermg spire. 

Rose to the strong enchantment of his lyre. 

<rti, the native country ^i'.l. (itillntin , our present See- 
retary of the Treasury , now i IS 1 'J> tonus apart of the Kicneh 

Empire. 



THE PORTRAIT. 263 

Immortal statesman ! while the stars shall burn, 
Or to the pole the trembling needle turn, 
Ne'er shall the tide of dark oblivion roll 
Over that " strong divinity of soul 
That conquered fate," * and traversed, unconiined, 
The various fields of matter and of mind, — 
Thy heart, to charity so warmly strung, 
And all the sweet persuasion of thy tongue. 
Yet, wast thou spotless in thine exit ? — Nay ; — 
Nor spotless is the monarch of the day ; — 
Still, but one cloud shall o'er thy fame be cast, 
And that shall shade no action, but thy last. 

Then, with a milder, though congenial ray, 
Like Hesper, shone the kindred soul of Jay. 
His hand unshaken by an empire's weight, 
His eye undazzled by the glare of state, 
Even in the shadow of " Power's purple robe," t 
He gave our land the charter of the globe, 
And bade our eagle leave her native pine, 
To bathe in light beneath the sultry line, 
O'er every tide, with lightning's speed, to sweep, 
Cleave every cloud that whitens o'er the deep, 
Tower o'er the heads of conquerors and kings, 
And soar to glory on her canvass wings. 

Then, where Ohio rolls her silver flood, 
If e'er a tomahawk was dyed in blood ; 

* "That strong divinity of soul 
That conquers Chance and Fate." 

Pleasures of Imagination. 
t Akenside. 



264 OCCASIONAL. 

Or if the war-whoop broke an infant's rest, 

Where Erie drinks the rivers of the West ; 

Or if an arrow, from an unseen bow, 

Thrown by a savage, laid a white-man low ; 

Or if a captive heard the hideous yell, 

Or felt the tortures of those fiends of hell ; — 

On his pale horse the king of terrors sped, 

The fires were quenched, the howling savage bled ; 

The grisly monarch feasted on the slain, 

And blest the courage, and the sword, of Wayne. 

Then, — ere, by Gallic perfidy beguiled, 
" The other Adams " * was again a child, — ■ 
When a grim monster t rose with many a head, 
More foul than e'er the lake of Lerna bred ; — 
Whose bloody hands no sacred tie could bind, 
Whose lurid eye rolled ruin on mankind ; — 
And frowning dared a tribute to demand, 
Of " beaucoup d' "argent," from a Pinckney's hand; — 
Fire in his eye, and thunder on his tongue, 
Fierce from his seat, the hoary veteran sprung, 
And gave the hydra in her den to know, 
He bought no friendship, — for he feared no foe. 

* John Randolph's cutting distinction between the late Presi- 
dent and the truly republican Samuel Adams. (*) 
t The French Directory. 

(*) Both the text and the notes of this poem occasionally show the 
warmth of political feeling, and the strength of party prejudice, that he- 
longed to the time when it was written. Both text and notes are 
allowed to remain, as memorials of fires that raged once, but have long 
since gone out. 



THE PORTRAIT. 265 

Then, nay since then, while yet a twilight grey 
Gave to our eyes the parting beams of day, — 
For, when our sun, our glory, sunk to rest, 
He fringed with gold the curtains of the west, 
And poured a lustre on the world behind, 
That faded as the mighty orb declined, — 
Our eagle, soaring with unwearied flight, 
'Mid clouds to enjoy the last, faint gleam of light, 
With piercing eye glanced o'er the watery waste, 
And saw her flag by Mussulmans disgraced ; 
Nay, — heard her children, on Numidia's plains, 
Sigh for their homes, and clank the Moslem's chains; 
The generous bird, at that incensing view, 
Caught from the clouds her thunder as she flew, 
With deathful shriek alarmed the guilty coast, 
And launched the bolt on Caramel li's host; 
Crescents and turbans sunk in wild dismay ; 
The Turkish soul, indignant, left its clay, — 
Though to the brave, a rich reward is given, 
The arms of Houris, and the bowers of heaven, — 
And Eaton trod in triumph o'er his foe, 
Where once fought Hannibal and Scipio. 

Then, a bright spirit, free from every vice, 
As was the rose that bloomed in Paradise ; 
A zeal, as warm, to see his country blest, 
As lived in Cato's or Lycurgus' breast ; 
A fancy chaste and vigorous as strung, 
To holy themes, Isaiah's hallowed tongue ; 
And strains as eloquent as Zion heard, 
When, on his golden harp, her royal bard 



266 OCCASIONAL. 

Waked to a glow devotion's dying flames, 
Flowed from the lips, and warmed the soul of Ames. 
Like Memnon's harp, that breathed a mournful tone, 
When on its strings the rays of morning shone, 
That stainless spirit, on approaching night, 
Was touched and saddened by prophetic light ; 
And, as the vision to his view was given, 
That spirit sunk, and, sighing, fled to heaven. 

Should we attempt on each bright name to dwell, 
The evening song would to a volume swell ; 
As on a beach, where mighty surges roar, 
Wave after wave rolls onward to the shore, 
So, on the page that History gives to Fame, 
And Fame to Glory, name succeeds to name. 
See Franklin, Adams,* Rutledge, gliding by ; — 
There Henry, Hillhouse, Trumbull, meet the eye ; — 
Here Ellsworth, Marshall, Tracy, rush along, 
King,t Griswold, Otis, Pickering, and Strong. 

Like heavenly dew, that evening's hour distils 
On Sharon's valleys or Gilboa's hills, 
Men, such as these, a holy influence shed, — 
Their deeds while living, and their names when dead ; 
Men, such as these, could guide Bellona's car, 
Or smooth to smiles the iron brow of war ; 
Men, such as these, could brave a monarch's frown, 
Could pluck the diamonds from a tyrant's crown, 

* Samuel Adams. t Rufus, — not the " other " King. 



THE PORTRAIT. 267 

And, when the oppression ceased, such men could show 

A god-like greatness, — and forgive a foe ; 

Such men could call religion from the skies, 

To guide their feet before a nation's eyes ; 

Where such men trod, the flowers of Science sprung, 

With hymns to Peace the humble cottage rung, 

Contentment spread the table of the poor, 

And Ceres blushed and waved beside his door ; — 

All, in such men, reposed unshaken trust ; 

The ruled were happy, and their rulers just. 

Say then, O Time ! since thy pervading eye 
Waked from the slumber of eternity, 
Hadst thou e'er seen a spot so highly blest, 
In bliss and beauty so superbly drest ? 

When erst, beyond the bright JEgean isles,* 
From the green billows rose the Queen of smiles, 
Pure as her parent foam, and heavenly fair ; — 
When her dark tresses of ambrosial hair 
Flowed round her waist, in many a wanton curl, 
Played in the breeze, and swept her car of pearl, 

* The reader will trace the outline of this scene, in the fol- 
lowing passage from Akenside. 

" Or as Venus, when she stood 
Effulgent on her pearly car, and smiled, 
Fresh from the deep, and conscious of her form, 
To see the Tritons tune their vocal shells, 
And each caerulean sister of the flood, 
With loud acclaim, attend her o'er the waves, 
To seek the Idalian bower." 

Pleasures of Imagination. 



268 OCCASIONAL. 

Whose amber wheels, in quick rotation, glide, 
Drawn by her doves, along the sparkling tide ; 
While, all around her, choirs of Tritons swell 
The mellow music of their twisted shell, 
As on she moves, with an exulting smile, 
To rear her temple on the Cyprian isle, 
Or rest, voluptuous, amid springing flowers, 
On rosy couches, under myrtle bowers ; — 
From Ida's top, the thunderer viewed the fair, 
The clouds that veiled him, melting into air ; 
And all the beauties of the Queen of love, 
In spite of Juno, fired the breast of Jove. 

So shone Columbia, when in happier days, 
O'er eastern mountains, with " unbounded blaze " 
She saw the sun of Independence rise, 
And roll, rejoicing, through unclouded skies. — 
So shone Columbia, when her infant hand 
With magic power, along her verdant strand, 
Charmed into life the city's busy throng, 
And rolled of wealth the swelling tide along, 
While Freedom's pure and consecrated fires 
Glowed in her halls, and glittered on her spires. — 
^o shone Columbia, when her naval pine 
Bowed, at her touch, to float beneath the line; 
And proudly bear, on every wave unfurled, 
Her swelling canvass o'er the watery world. — 
So shone Columbia, when the trembling wave 
Heard Preble's thunder, and was Somers' grave ; - 
So shone, whene'er she trod her native plain, — 
(For she emerged, like Venus, from the main,) 



THE PORTRAIT. 269 

Till doomed from Neptune's empire to retire, 
And dew with tears the ashes of her sire. 

From realms, where, waving o'er celestial vales, 
Green groves of amaranth bend to spicy gales ; 
From emerald rocks, where crystal water flows ; 
Where sainted spirits of the just repose ; 
Where patriots bleed not, in their country's wars, 
Nor roam in beggary, nor show their scars 
To their ungrateful country's tearless eye, 
Nor on that country's frozen bosom die ; — 
But where, in peace, they breathe an air of balm, 
And bind their temples with immortal palm ; 
Where choral symphonies no discord mars, 
Nor drowns the music of the morning stars, 
Who, crowned with light, around the Eternal's throne 
Pour on the ravished car the mingled tone 
Of voice and golden lyre, that fill the sky 
With the wild notes of heavenly minstrelsy ; — 
There, while the star-paved walks of Heaven he trod, 
Cheered by the unclouded vision of his God, 
Great Washington beheld the fair ; and smiled, 
And said to wondering seraphs, — " Lo ! my child." 

But now, how changed the scene ! — Ye blissful days. 
Withdraw the dazzling splendor of your blaze ! 
And, Memory, snatch thy record from my sight, 
Whose leaves, emblazoned with the beams of light, 
Pour on the eye, that glances o'er thy page, 
The strong effulgence of a golden age. 



270 OCCASIONAL. 

Come, Lethe, come ! thy tide oblivious roll 

O'er all that proud complacency of soul, 

That generous ardor, that enlivening flame, 

That warmed my bosom, when I heard the name 

Of my once honored country ; — let thy wave, 

Dark as Avernus, gloomy as the grave, 

Drown every vestige of that country's fame, 

And shade the light that bursts upon her shame ! 

Say, — shall we paint her as she meets the eye ? 

No ; — drop the pallet, — throw the pencil by ; — 

Why should you wish that shrivelled form to trace, 

Or stain the canvass with Columbia's face ! 

No fame awaits the artist ; — though he give 

Each feature life, his memory ne'er shall live ; 

Ne'er shall he stand in Raphael's honors drest, 

Nor snatch the laurels from the brows of West. 

Time was, indeed, when he who 'd paint the fair, 

Must mix the blending colors, soft as air ; 

To hit the piercing lustre of her eye, 

Must catch the light and azure of the sky ; 

To fill the piece with corresponding glow, 

Must dip his pencil in the eastern bow ; 

Then, o'er her locks and dimpled cheeks, must shed 

The paly orange and the rose's red ; — 

Must shade the mellow back-ground of the scene 

With mingled tints of violet and green ; 

Upon her lips must smiles and graces play ; 

The coral, melting in the dews of May, 

Must just disclose the ivory beneath, 

And if she breathed not, she must seem to breathe. 



THE PORTRAIT. 271 

But let not now the merest novice dread, 
(This same Columbia sitting for her head,) 
With painting frenzy fired, to grasp the brush ; — 
He '11 hit her to the life, and need not blush 
To have his work inspected ; — if he '11 mix 
The kindred streams of Acheron and Styx* 
Shut close his windows, that no ray of light 
May give a single feature to his sight, — 
Then, on the ready canvass turn his back, 
And daub it o'er with bitter and with Hack. 



Look at Columbia ! — see her sickly form, 
Exposed, unsheltered, to the howling storm ; 
No friendly taper glimmering on her sight, 
Her thin robes draggled in the dews of night, 
Her bosom shrinking from the piercing blasts, 
On Earth's cold lap her fainting limbs she casts ; — 
And as she sinks, despairing and forlorn, 
The clouds her curtains, and her couch the thorn, 
Her Evil Genius, envying e'en such rest, 
Broods like an incubus upon her breast ; — 
Forbids the fluid through her veins to dart, 
And locks up every function of her heart. f 

* Two rivers, said by mycologists to flow through the infernal 
regions, the one remarkable for the bitter taste, and the other for 
the " inky hue " of its waters. 

t " The virtue of the people, &c. routed and put to flight 
that corruption, which sat like an incubus on the heart of the 
metropolis, chaining the current of its blood, and locking up 
every healthful function and energy of life." 

Curraris Speech on the Election of Lord Mayo?-. 



272 OCCASIONAL. 

And yet, the authors of their country's shame, 
(In rank, too high ; in worth, too low to name,) 
Viewing her dying agonies the while, 
With fiend-like triumph " grin a ghastly smile." 

Look at our Commerce ! — driven from the deep, 
Our sails no more its curling surface sweep ; 
No more the silks of India swell our stores ; 
No more Arabia's gums perfume our shores ; 
But Desolation hovers o'er our ships 
With raven pinions ; — and with skinny lips, 
And cheeks all shrivelled, Famine stalks our streets, 
And clings, with withered hand, to all she meets. 

Look at our army ! — See its bristling van, 
Led on to conquest by that wondrous man, 
Who dares the aid of powder to despise, 
And " looks down opposition " with his eyes ! * 
See ! how the forests shudder as he comes ! 
How their recesses echo to his drums ! 
See him, with Victory perching on his crest, 
Leap boldly o'er the barriers of the West, 
And bid his eagles, stooping to the plain, 
Fix their strong talons in the Lion's mane ! — 
Then see him, wheeling with resistless sweep,- 
Exchange his army — for a flock of sheep ! f 

* "I have a force which will look down all opposition.'" — 
Hull's emancipating Proclamation to the Oppressed Canadians, 
July 12th, 1812. 

t Some of the early bulletins of the northwestern army give 
an account of having taken prisoners eight hundred and thirty 
Merino sheep. 



THE PORTRAIT. 273 

Look at our navy ! — does it proudly ride, 
And roll its thunders o'er the subject tide, 
As once it rode and thundered ? Rogers, say, 
When, from our coasts, thy squadron bore away, 
Stretched o'er the Atlantic, and its flags unfurled, 
To catch the breezes of the Eastern world, 
Sought for a foe on Afric's sultry shores, 
And ploughed the circling waves, that washed the 

Azores ; 
For thee, what garlands floated on the main ? 
What did thy squadron ? — It came back again ! * 

How gratefully, amid the horrid gloom, 
That rests incumbent on our Honor's tomb, 
Should we all hail one solitary ray, 
Were it indeed the harbinger of day ; — 
When even now, amid the tenfold night 
Of dark despair, we hail, with fond delight, 
Nay, with triumphant pride, the beam that 's poured, 
Conqueror of Dacres, from thy flaming sword ! 
Then, would the patriot's heart, that sinks oppressed 
By humbling shame, throb proudly in his breast ; 
Then, would he say, " The reign of night is o'er ! 
The day is dawning that shall close no more ! 
My hopes were sunk ; but brighter prospects rise, 
And other suns shall yet adorn our skies. 
Thus would the ear, when fever fires the brain, 
Restless, all night, with sympathetic pain, 

* Look at the Commodore's own account of this a scurry w 
expedition, in his letter to the Secretary of the Navy, Septem- 
ber 1st, 1812. 

18 



274 OCCASIONAL. 

By jarring discord's harshest gratings torn, 
Wake to the airy melodies of mom." * 
But now, what is it ? 'T is the lightning's glare, 
That flames at midnight through the murky air, 
And shows what clouds the face of heaven deform, 
And all the fearful horrors of the storm. 
Thus, when Apollo to his son resigned 
His car and coursers, to illume mankind, 
His car and coursers, stooping from the skies, 
Cleft earth with heat, and opened to the eyes 
Of the pale tenants of the realms below, 
The boundless chaos, and the scenes of woe, 
That reigned around ; — e'en Pluto and his bride, 
Who swayed the infernal sceptre, side by side, 
Trembled beneath the intolerable light ; — 
And the ghosts shrunk and shuddered at the sight, t 
Still, gallant Hull, the meed of praise is thine, 
Still Victory's wreaths around thy brow shall twine, 
Still, child of Washington, thy name shall live. 
While valor immortality can give ! 

Hark ! — as it shuts, with triple-bolted bars, 
The ponderous door on grating hinges jars ; 
The massy key springs the reluctant locks ; 
Echoes the clang from adamantine rocks ; — . 
There, in a dungeon's gloom, 'mid vapors dank, 
Where rattle manacles, and fetters clank, 

* " But who the melodies of mom can tell ? " — Bcattic. 

t For the particulars of the ruin in which Phaeton involved 
not only himself, hut the world, hy his rash experiment at illu- 
minating mankind, see Ovid's Mctanwr phases, Lib. ii. 



THE PORTRAIT, 275 

To perfidy and treachery self- resigned, 

Children of Liberty, were ye confined ! 

Children of Honor, thither basely led ! 

Children of Washington, — 't was there ye bled ! 

And why ? — What nameless deed that hates' the sun, 

And courts congenial darkness, had ye done ? 

Some ruined virgin had ye left to sigh, 

And die in guilt, or live in infamy ? 

Covered her father's reverend cheeks with shame ? 

Or shot her brother to redeem your fame ? — 

No ; but in times like these, when Virtue weeps, 

When high-born Honor in retirement sleeps, 

When Vice triumphant fills the chair of state, 

When most great men are infamously great, 

When sots and demagogues to election come, — 

Those to give votes and these to pay in rum, — 

When place is venal, nay, by auction bought, 

Ye dared to think, and publish as ye thought ! 

Hark ! — 't is the Demon ! — at the door he treads ! 
Alecto's mantle shrouds his hundred heads ; 
Back fly the bolts ; his bloody eye-balls glare ; 
Long, dangling snakes hiss in his horrent hair ; 
Blue flames of sulphur issue from his jaws ; 
Each giant hand a naked dagger draws ; 
The steely clashing echoes from the walls, 
And at his feet the hoary Lingan falls ! * 

* The reader of the present day may need to be informed that 
this passage relates to the Baltimore Mob of 1812: — that had 
taken place just before this poem was written ; that had for its 



276 OCCASIONAL. 

The monster speaks ; — " There, traitor, take thy rest ! 
Ha ! — are those scars, that seam thy aged breast ? — 
And didst thou think ' those poor dumb wounds would 

plead, 
Like angels, trumpet-tongued,' * against my deed ? 
Simple old fool ! — I glory in my work ; — 
Here, — see thy blood that trickles from my dirk ! 
Die not, till thou hast seen what joy I feel, 
To kiss that trophy of my faithful steel ; — 
That trophy must command a generous price, 
Where I shall show it ; — great men are not nice, 
Who have employed me in these high -affairs ; 
I '11 have my pay, — as doubtless they have theirs 

object the suppression of Hanson's " Federal Republican ".; and 
that resulted on the destruction of the printing-office, — the storm- 
ing of the city prison within whose cells the defenders of the 
press had allowed themselves to be locked up, as the only pro- 
tection the laws could afford them from popular violence, — and in 
the murder of the venerable General Lingan, within those cells ! 
This, I believe, was the first of a series, — disgraceful to our 
land, — of mobs for the suppression of the liberty of the press 
and of discussion, and for the destruction of the lives of its de- 
fenders. That in Philadelphia, May 17th, 1838, in which Pennsyl- 
vania Hall was burnt, is, I believe, the last. May it ever be ! 
These lines, now more than a quarter of a century old, show that 
my indignation towards mobs is no new flame. 1840. 

* " Show you sweet Csesar's wounds, poor, poor dumb mouths! 
And bid them speak for me." 



Julius CcBsar. 



" His virtues 
Will plead like angels trumpet-tongued, against 
The deep damnation of his taking off.' 



Macbeth. 



THE PORTRAIT. 277 

From those, who still a prouder state enjoy, — 
Who bribed Speranski,* — and who bought Godoylf 
Ah ! not yet dead ! — give me thy hoary locks, 
And let thy brains besmear these gory rocks ; — 
Thus do I dash thee, — Tory as thou art, — 
Thus drink thy blood, — thus craunch thy quivering 
heart!" 

Soul of the brave, look backward in thy flight ; 
Our eyes pursue thee till thou 'rt lost in light ; 
There rest in peace, thy earthly pains forgot ; — 
Soul of the brave, how happy is thy lot ! 

Johnson, Montgomery, Strieker ! — when grim Death 
Shall stop the volumes of mephitic breath, 
That spread contagion round you ; when your ear 
The curse of freemen can no longer hear ; 
Your memory like your carcasses shall rot, 
On earth detested, — in the grave forgot. 

* Speranski, raised by the Emperor Alexander from humble 
life to the highest civil office in the Russian empire, — lately 
banished to Siberia, for communicating to Buonaparte the whole 
plan of the Emperor's operations in the present war. 

t Godoy, the infamous Prince of Peace, who, while he 
enjoyed all the wealth and honor his King could lavish upon 
him, as well as all the more flattering favors of his Queen, held 
a treasonable correspondence with the Tyrant of France, the 
object of which was the destruction of the Spanish monarchy. 
Thus we see, that from Madrid to St. Petersburgh, neither 
wealth, nor power, nor love can resist the omnipotence of 
French intrigue. Are its operations confined to the Eastern 
continent ? 



278 OCCASIONAL. 

While Lingan, Hanson, Thompson, Biglow fire 

The poet's raptures, and the minstrel's lyre, 

Rise, their deluded countrymen to bless, 

And, from the ruins of the falling Press, 

Diffuse such lustre, as dispels the gloom 

From Sidney's scaffold and from Hampden's tomb. 

When on the ruins of Palmyra's walls, 
Through fleecy clouds, the sober moonlight falls, 
Trembling among the ivy leaves, that shade 
The crumbling arch and broken colonnade, 
As some lone bard, that gives his silver hair 
To float, dishevelled, on the sighing air, 
While glories, long departed, rush along, 
Pours on the ear of night, in mournful song, 
The fond remembrance of that splendid day, 
When round Longinus' temples twined the bay, 
When on those towers the beams of science shone, 
And princes kneeled around Zenobia's throne ; — 
Some future minstrel thus his lyre shall sweep, 
Where glides Potomac to the azure deep. 

" Where now these ruins moulder on the ground, 
Where Desolation walks her silent round, 
The slippery serpent drags his sinuous trail, - 
To marble columns clings the slimy snail, 
The solemn raven croaks, the cricket sings, 
And bats and owlets flap their sooty wings ; — 
Once, a proud temple rose, with front sublime, 
By Wisdom reared, to brave the shocks of Time, 



THE PORTRAIT. 279 

And consecrated to the smiling Three, 

Religion, Peace, and Civil Liberty. 

Its earliest priests, in stainless robes arrayed, 

By no threats dannted, by no arts betrayed, 

Ne'er let the censer nor the olive drop, 

Though clouds and tempests brooded o'er its top. 

Time brought their pious labors to a close ; 

Others succeeded, and new scenes arose ; — 

The hovering tempests fell upon its walls, 

The brooding clouds were welcomed to its halls, 

The shuddering altars felt the fires of hell, 

The olive withered, and the censer fell, 

The columns broke, the trembling arches frowned, 

The Temple sunk, and ruin stalks around." 



280 



II. 



NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS, 



To the Patrons of the Boston Daily Advertiser and Repertory, 
January 1st, 1815. 



Years roll along ; and, as they glide away 

In silent lapse, on every New-Year's da'y 

'T is claimed by custom that we carriers sing ; 

And thus the tribute of the Muse we bring. 

Not that the strain with classic smoothness flows, 

Nor that the same might not be said in prose ; 

But while there 's nought the fancy to amuse, 

Or waken wonder in the form of news, 

You '11 pause with pleasure, in this gloomy season, 

If song be sense, and if our rhyme be reason, — 

While all around us clouds and tempests lower, 

The frosts of winter, and the frown of power, — 

To listen where a rippling rill of rhyme 

Steals through the wild and dreary waste of Time. 

No pomp of battle shall our numbers swell ; 
No deathless wreaths for those who fought and fell 
Shall we entwine ; nor pour a mournful dirge 
O'er those, who, sinking in the swallowing surge, 
Saw, e'er they sunk into their billowy grave, 
The sword of Blakeley, gleaming o'er the wave, 



NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS. 281 

Pluck the green laurel from the azure plain, 
And from the mighty mistress of the main ; — 
Nor yet o'er those who fell with equal fame, 
On sweeter waters, though of humbler name ; 
Who by Macdonough to the combat led, 
By valor conquered, and with glory bled. 

Here check the Muse, e'er yet in full career, 
And pay the passing tribute of a tear 
To the brave tars who triumphed on the wave, 
But e'en in victory found a watery grave ; — 
Who sunk in silence, and now sweetly sleep 
Within the coral caverns of the deep. 
Still shall their spirits hover o'er the flood, 
Now stained and rendered sacred by their blood, 
From where St. Lawrence spreads his bosom wide 
And meets the main with his gigantic tide, 
To where Champlain his emerald basin fills 
With crystal waters from surrounding hills. 
Still shall their ghosts on the dark tempest ride, 
Still o'er the fury of the fight preside ; 
Still of their country claim a generous tear, 
Pledged by their comrades each returning year ; 
And, as their memory consecrates the bowl, 
Swell the rich tide in each congenial soul, 
As kindred streams to kindred oceans roll. 

Peace to their shades ! — nor let the Muse presume 
O'er Europe's fields to wave the historic plume ; 
For me to sing, or you to hear the song, 
Of e'en her mighty deeds were far too long. 



282 OCCASIONAL. 

One moment still, as o'er her fields I run, 
I pause to hail the splendor of the sun, 
That rises cloudless from her vales of blood, 
Gilds the blue mountain, glances on the flood, 
Darts his glad beams to even the Atlantic shore, 
And lights the waves that whiten as they roar. 

But stop ; — while gazing upon eastern glory, 
The time runs on, and I delay my story. 

Surrounded by his parasites and tools, — 
Those arrant knaves, and these as arrant fools ; 
Those raised to seats of power for what they 'd said, 
And these kept in them by congenial lead, 
But all pure patriots, — sat in full divan 
A mighty statesman, but a little man. 
Though short his person, 't was genteelly slim, 
His step was stately, and his dress was prim ; 
Proud of his station, of himself still prouder, 
His shirt no plaiting lacked, his hair no powder. — 
'T was silence all, when thus the sage expressed 
The calm complacency that filled his breast : 

" Oh happy state, where foes each other claw, 
Where power is liberty, and license law ; 
All then are fools, if not of all possessed, 
Which, wanted, leaves a void within the breast, 
And thus are we, my friends, supremely blest. 
But, if we all are blest in stations high, 
Then how superlatively so am I ! 



NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS. 283 

Ask for what end yourselves around me shine ? 
Each for whose use ? — I answer, whose but mine ! 
Me the kind nation clothes with boundless power, 
And feeds with sweetest herbs and finest flour ; 
Annual for me does either house renew 
The tax on whisky, — never paid when due ; 
To me the mine a thousand treasures brings ; 
For me wealth gushes from a thousand springs ; 
Blacks count, to choose me, mobs to help me rise ; 
Be earth my throne, and never mind the skies. 

" How doubly blest in this propitious hour, 
Are those who gave, or we who stole, the power, 
To banish commerce from each busy mart, 
To check the warm tide bounding through the heart, 
Lest, should the current too profusely spread, 
Dance through the limbs, and riot in the head, 
It might gush out through some unguarded chink, 
And the poor patient through exhaustion sink. 
True, we deny the multitude their wishes ; — 
But what of that ? — we take their loaves and fishes ; 
For, faithful to the wise Egyptian law, 
We claim their bricks, though we refuse them straw ; 
While they are ' prompt,' the dear, enlightened elves, 
To feed their rulers, though they starve themselves. 
O happy rulers, who can taxes lay ! 
O happy people, who must taxes pay ! — 
But ha ! — what awful vision meets my sight, 
That moves majestic, though involved in night ! 



284 OCCASIONAL. 

Pale sheets of lightning quiver on the cloud, 

That robes some demon in a sulphurous shroud, 

And hark ! the swelling thunder rolls aloud. 

'T is he, 't is War ! — I snuff his blasting breath ! 

Save me, my friends, then save yourselves, from death ! " 

Pale as the plaster, sunk 'the great beholder, 
Cold as the marble of the floor, or colder. 

Meantime, 'mid lurid smoke and withering flame, 
In gloomy pomp, the Fiend of darkness came. 
Two dragons fierce, by spells infernal bound, 
Roll on his iron car, that shakes the ground ! 
Their breath around a hellish horror flings, 
That darkens as they flap their leathern wings ; 
While viscid drops exude between the scales, 
That rustle as they writhe their coiling tails ; — 
Heaven frowns above them, earth, with hollow groan, 
Shudders beneath the steeds of Phlegethon. 
The Fiend, who goaded on the panting pair, 
Had wreathed his temples, and his clotted hair, 
With shrivelled hemlock and with cypress round ; — 
So should the gory God of War be crowned. 
His stiffening locks on his broad shoulders curled ; — 
O'er him his bloody banner was unfurled ; — ' 
He breathes, and dun smoke rolls in volumes dire ; — 
Beneath his black brow, flash his eyes of fire ; — 
In either hand he waves a weapon fell, 
In this a glowing shot, in that a shell, 
Both snatched still hissing from the forge of hell. 



NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS. 285 

And round the Demon, as in wrath he comes, 
Bright bayonets bristle, burst the bellowing bombs, 
Red rockets dart, and rattling roll the drums. 

The affrighted chief, who on the floor had sunk, 
With " brief authority," not brandy, drunk, 
Burst the cold bands of syncope asunder, 
And, starting as he heard the approaching thunder, 
Sprung from the floor and cried with all his force, 
" A horse ! a horse ! — my kingdom for a horse ! " 
His steed, obedient to his sovereign's call, 
In splendid trappings bounded from his stall, 
Neighed as he stopped before the palace gate, 
And kneeled expectant of the illustrious freight. 
Quick to his seat the enlightened statesman sprung ; — 
The conscious saddle creaked, the stirrups rung, 
Loud cracked the lash, loose hung the useless rein, 
And floated freely on his courser's mane. 
Swift though that courser bore his lord from home, 
Whitening his dusty flanks with flakes of foam, 
Yet for those flanks the rider felt no bov/els, 
But galled them sorely with his bloody rowels, 
Nor once looked backward till far on the way 
That leads from Washington to Montpelier. 

Immortal Gilpin ! did thy charger caper, 
Charged though he were with the bold linen-draper; 
With hoofs of iron spurn the paving-stones, 
Nor heed thy bottles, nor regard thy bones, — 
Though those were dashed to atoms at thy back, 
And these endured the tortures of the rack ? — 



286 OCCASIONAL. 

Did his high mettle, heedless of the rein, 

Prompt him, without a scourge, to scour the plain 

With such resistless fury as to bailie 

The united force of martingal and snaffle ? 

Such fury as to leave thy hat behind, 

And give thy wig, all powdered, to the wind? 

Such that nor bits could curb, nor turnpikes check ? 

(Much to the peril, Gilpin, of thy neck ;) 

Did postboys see thee pass like lightning by, 

Mount their fleet steeds, and raise their hue and cry ; 

And in this crisis did thy generous steed, 

As they increased their noise, increase his speed ? 

And didst thou, finding all thy efforts vain 

To curb him with thy bridle, drop the rein, 

And, to thyself lest there might happen some ill, 

With this hand grasp the mane, with that the pommel, 

And, leaning forward, to their Fates resign 

Thy wife, thy wig, thy bottles, and thy wine ; 

Till far behind the chase was heard no more, 

And thy good steed had halted at thy door, 

And dropped thee, bruised and weary, from the crupper, 

But just in season to sit down to supper ? 

O Captain Gilpin, hush ! — no longer seek 

To palm thy tale upon us as unique ; 

For, as his homeward course our hero steers, - 

Leaving his palace to " his valiant peers," 

These seem resolved, if there is aught in speed, 

Ne'er to desert him " in his utmost need," 

And least of all to stay, and at the altar bleed. 

Thus ever duteous, each his groom bestirs, 

Pulls on his boots, and buckles on his spurs, 



NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS. 287 

Ne'er asks the question, which demands him most, 
In danger's hour, his pony or his post, 
But mounts at once, and a la mode de Boney, 
Deserts his post, and pricks his prancing pony. 
Yet, gentle reader, do not think that fear 
Impelled their heels, to urge their swift career ; 
They knew not fear, for, even when the air 
Smelt strong of powder, they could nobly dare, 
Could laugh at balls as they innoxious fell, 
And, — when it once had burst, — despise a shell ; 
Nay one, 't is said, whose birth the auspicious stars 
Had kindly cast beneath the sign of Mars, 
E'en cracked his whip at an expiring rocket, 
(He had, it seems, his pistols in his pocket,) 
Nor was he by his bravery incommoded, 
For, strange to tell, the rocket ne'er exploded ! 

In the short moment that they 're thus delayed, 
What deathless deeds of daring are displayed ! 
That little moment ! — But new lightnings flash, 
And nearer roars the thunder ; hark ! the lash, 
That cracked defiance at all Congreve's powder, 
Now o'er the flying courser cracks still louder. 
Away they start, and, as each rider feels 
War's sulphurous breath already scorch his heels, 
(Those heels where plated silver shines so bright,) 
His heels with greater vigor urge the flight. 
Swift is the steed, they know, that bears their master, 
But, though he leads them fast, they follow faster ; — 
All strive to pass their fellows as they fly, 
And, " Devil take the hindmost," is the cry, 



288 OCCASIONAL. 

Till far remote from danger they descried 
Our Hero seated by his horse's side, 
Who, sad as Sancho when he saw the vile end 
Of all his hopes, his palace, and his island, 
Seemed to apostrophize the distant flame, 
And thus he closed, as on their coursers came : 
" It is no more ! Yet nought beneath the stars 
Can stand the shock of Vulcan and of Mars ; 
Neither the city's pomp, nor rustic bowers, 
' Nor gorgeous palaces, nor cloud-capt towers,' 
Nor e'en the pillars of this mighty globe ; — 
Nor — all the brick and mortar of Latrobe." 

Patrons, my tale is told, and shall I hush ? 
I will, indeed, — to hide the crimson blush 
That kindles on my cheek with parching flame, 
When doomed to dwell upon these scenes of shame. 
Fain would I dash the records from my page, 
And veil the present from the future age. — 
But no; — what Truth compels the Muse to trace, 
No tears can wash away, no art erase. 
Fain would I check the tide ; — but flow it must. 
Who can repress the invincible disgust, 
That finds a place in every patriot's breast, 
Who knows he is not governed but oppressed - v — 
Who sees his sacred rights the jest of knaves, 
His bleeding sons, the tools of abject slaves ! 
Who sees, beneath the feet of tyrants trod, 
The laws of man, the oracles of God, — 
And, where the historic Muse, with diamond pen, 
Once wrote the immortal names of godlike men, 



NEWS-CARRIER'S ADDRESS. 289 

Now, catching through the gloom a sickening glimpse, 
Sees Infamy, begirt with grinning imps, 
Trace on her sooty page with pitchy swab 
The damning deeds of Madison and Mob ! 

My New- Year's wish, though warm, is briefly told ; — 
May the New-Year be happier than the Old ; 
May scenes of peace succeed to those of blood ; 
May Commerce spread her white wings o'er the flood ; 
May good men live, but every tyrant knave, 
Who rules to curse his country, find a graved 
Whether by angry Heaven in vengeance made, 
Or dug by Brutus with his patriot blade. 

* A better wish, in behalf of such a man, would have been, 
that he might live to see the error of his ways, and a better man 
in his place. The " patriot blade " of Brutus put one Caesar out 
of the way, only to make room for another; and, when there was 
not virtue enough left in Rome to uphold a Republic, the people 
gained little by exchanging the ambition of Julius Caesar for the 
stern despotism of Augustus. 



"i 



19 



290 



III. 

A WORD FROM A PETITIONER. 

What ! our petitions spurned ! The prayer 
Of thousands, — tens of thousands, — cast 

Unheard, beneath your Speaker's chair ! 
But ye will hear us, first or last. 

The thousands that, last year, ye scorned, 

Are millions now. Be warned ! Be warned ! 

Turn not, contemptuous, on your heel ; — 

It is not for an act of grace 
That, suppliants, at your feet we kneel, — 

We stand ; — we look you in the face, 
And say, — and we have weighed the word, — 
That our petitions shall be heard. 

There are two powers above the laws 
Ye make or mar : — they 're our allies. 

Beneath their shield we '11 urge our cause, , 
Though all your hands against us rise. 

We 've proved them, and we know their might ; 

The Constitution and the Right. 

We say not, ye shall snap the links 
That bind you to your dreadful slaves ; 



A WORD FROM A PETITIONER. 291 

Hug, if ye will, a corpse that stinks, 

And toil on with it to your graves ! 
But, that ye may go, coupled thus, 
Ye never shall make slaves of us. 

And what, but more than slaves, are they 
Who 're told they ne'er shall be denied 

The right of prayer ; yet, when they pray, 
Their prayers, unheard, are thrown aside ? 

Such mockery they will tamely bear, 

Who 're fit an iron chain to wear. 

" The ox, that treadeth out the corn, 

Thou shalt not muzzle." — Thus saith God. 

And will ye muzzle the free-born, — 
The man, — the owner of the sod, — 

Who " gives the grazing ox his meat," 

And you, — his servants here, — your seat? 

There 's a cloud, blackening up the sky ! 

East, west, and north its curtain spreads ; 
Lift to its muttering folds your eye ! 

Beware ! for, bursting on your heads, 
It hath a force to bear you down ; — 
'T is an insulted people's frown. 

Ye may have heard of the Soultan', 

And how his Janissaries fell ! 
Their barracks, near the Atmeidan', 

He barred, and fired ; — and their death-yell 



292 ^OCCASIONAL. 

Went to the stars, — and their blood ran 
In brooks across the Atmeidan'. 

The despot spake ; and, in one night, 
The deed was done. He wields, alone, 

The sceptre of the Ottomite, 

And brooks no brother near his throne. 

Even now, the bow-string, at his beck, 

Goes round his mightiest subject's neck ; 

Yet will he, in his saddle, stoop, — 
I 've seen him, in his palace-yard, — 

To take petitions from a troop 
Of women, who, behind his guard, 

Come up, their several suits to press, 

To state their wrongs, and ask redress. 

And these, into his house of prayer, 
I 've seen him take ; and, as he spreads 

His own before his Maker there, 

These women's prayers he hears or reads ; 

For, while he wears the diadem, 

He is instead of God to them. 

And this he must do. He may grant, 
Or may deny ; but hear he must. 

Were his Seven Towers all adamant, 
They 'd soon be levelled with the dust, 

And " public feeling " make short work, — 

Should he not hear them, — with the Turk. 



A WORD FROM A PETITIONER. 293 

Nay, start not from your chairs, in dread 

Of cannon-shot, or bursting shell ! 
These shall not fall upon your head, 

As once * upon your house they fell. 
We have a weapon, firmer set 
And better than the bayonet ; — 

A weapon that comes down as still / 

As snow-flakes fall upon the sod ; 
But executes a freeman's will 

As lightning does the will of God ; 
And from its force, nor doors nor locks 
Can shield you ; — 't is the ballot-box. 



Black as your deed shall be the balls 
That from that box shall pour like hail ! 

And, when the storm upon you falls, 
How will your craven cheeks turn pale ! 

For, at its coming though ye laugh, 

'T will sweep you from your hall, like chaff. 

Not women, now, — the people pray. 

Hear us, — or from us ye will hear ! 
Beware ! — a desperate game ye play ! 

The men that thicken in your rear, — 
Kings though ye be, — may not be scorned. 
Look to your move ! your stake ! — Ye 're warned. 
1837. 

* When the British entered Washington, in the war of 1812- 
15. — See page 2S4. 



294 



IV. 

THE TOCSIN. 

" If the pulpit be silent, whenever or wherever there may be a sinner, 
bloody with this guilt, within the hearing of its voice, the pulpit is 
false to its trust." — D. Webster. 

Wake ! children of the men who said, 

" All are born free ! " — Their spirits come 

Back to the places where they bled 
In Freedom's holy martyrdom, 

And find you sleeping on their graves, 

And hugging there your chains, — ye slaves ! 

Ay, — slaves of slaves ! What, sleep ye yet, 
And dream of Freedom, while ye sleep ? 

Ay, — dream, while Slavery's foot is set 
So firmly on your necks, — while deep 

The chain her quivering flesh endures 

Gnaws, like a cancer, into yours ? 

Hah ! say ye that I 've falsely spoken, 

Calling you slaves ? — Then prove ye 're not ; 

Work a free press ! — ye '11 see it broken ; * 
Stand to defend it ! — ye '11 be shot, f — 

yes ! but people should not dare 

Print what " the brotherhood " won't bear ! 

* Bear witness, heights of Alton ! 
\ Bear witness, bones of Lovejoy t 



THE TOCSIN. 295 

Then from your lips let words of grace, 

Gleaned from the Holy Bible's pages, 
Fall, while ye 're pleading for a race 

Whose blood has flowed through chains for ages ; — 
And pray, — " Lord, let thy kingdom come ! " 
And see if ye 're not stricken dumb. 

Yes, men of God ! ye may not speak, 
As, by the Word of God, ye 're bidden ; 

By the pressed lip, — the blanching cheek, 
Ye feel yourselves rebuked and chidden ; * 

And, if ye 're not cast out, ye fear it ; — 

And why ? — " The brethren " will not hear it. 

Since, then, through pulpit, or through press, 
To prove your freedom ye 're not able, 

Go, — like the Sun of Righteousness, 
By wise men honored, — to a stable ! 

* Bear witness," Grounds of Complaint preferred against the 
Rev. John Pierpont, by a Committee of the Parish, called ' The 
Proprietors of Hollis-Street Meetinghouse,' to be submitted to 
a mutual Ecclesiastical Council, as Reasons for dissolving his 
Connexion with said Parish," July 27th, 1840 : one of which 
runs thus ; — Because " of his too busy interference with ques- 
tions of legislation on the subject of prohibiting the sale of ardent 
spirits ; — of his too busy interference with questions of legisla- 
tion on the subject of imprisonment for debt ; — of his too busy 
interference with the popular controversy on the subject of the 
abolition of slavery." And this, in the eighteen hundred and 
fortieth year of Him whom the Lord God sent " to proclaim 
liberty to the captives, and the opening of the prison to them 
that are bound " ! 



296 OCCASIONAL. 

Bend there to Liberty your knee ! 
Say there that God made all men free ! 

Even there, — ere Freedom's vows ye 've plighted, 
Ere of her form ye 've caught a glimpse, 

Even there, are fires infernal lighted, 

And ye 're driven out by Slavery's imps. * 

Ah, well ! — "so persecuted they 

The prophets " of a former day ! 

Go, then, and build yourselves a hall, 

To prove ye are not slaves, but men' ! 
Write " Freedom," on its towering wall ! 

Baptize it in the name of Penn ; 
And give it to her holy cause, 
Beneath the iEgis of her laws ; — 

Within let Freedom's anthem swell ; — 

And, while your hearts begin to throb, 
And burn within you Hark ! the yell, — 

The torch, — the torrent of the Mob ! — 

* Bear witness, that large " upper room," the hay-loft over 
the stable of the Marlborough Hotel, standing upon the ground 
now covered by the Marlborough Chapel ; the only temple in 
Boston, into which the friends of human liberty, that is, of the 
liberty of man as man, irrespective of color or caste, could gain 
admittance for the annual meeting of the Massachusetts Anti- 
Slavery Society, January 25th, 1837. Bear witness, too, that 
smaller room in Summer Street, where a meeting was held the 
same day, by members of the same Society ; where their only 
altar was an iron stove, — their only incense, the fumes of a 
quantity of cayenne pepper, that some one of the " imps " had 
sprinkled upon the hot stove-plates, to drive the friends of the 
freedom of all men out of that little asylum. 



THE TOCSIN, 297 

They 're Slavery's troops that round you sweep, 
And leave your hall a smouldering heap ! # 

At Slavery's beck, the prayers ye urge 
On your own servants, through the door 

Of your own Senate, — that the scourge 
May gash your brother's back no more, — 

Are trampled underneath their feet, 

While ye stand praying in the street ! 

At Slavery's beck, ye send your sons f 

To hunt down Indian wives or maids, 
Doomed to the lash ! — Yes, and their bones, 

Whitening 'mid swamps and everglades, 
Where no friend goes to give them graves, 
Prove that ye are not Slavery's slaves ! 

At Slavery's beck, the very hands 

Ye lift to Heaven, to swear ye 're free, 

Will break a truce, to seize the lands 
Of Seminole or Cherokee ! 

Yes, — tear a flag, that Tartar hordes 

Respect, and shield it with their swords ! | 

* Bear witness, ye ruins of " Pennsylvania Hall " ! — a heap 
of ruins made by a Philadelphia mob, May 17th, 1838, — and still 
allowed to remain a heap of ruins, as I was lately told in Phila- 
delphia, from the fear, on the part of the city government, that, 
should the noble structure be reared again, and dedicated again 
to Liberty, the fiery tragedy of the 17th of May would be encored. 

t Bear witness, Florida war, from first to Jast, though " the 
end is not yet." 

t Bear witness, ghost of the great-hearted, broken-hearted 
Osceola ! 



298 OCCASIONAL. 

Vengeance is thine, Almighty God ! 

To pay it hath thy justice bound thee ; 
Even now, I see thee take thy rod, — 

Thy thunders, leashed and growling round thee ; — 
Slip them not yet, in mercy ! — Deign 

Thy wrath yet longer to restrain ! — 

Or, — let thy kingdom, Slavery, come ! 

Let Church, let State, receive thy chain ! 
Let pulpit, press, and hall be dumb, 

If so " the brotherhood " ordain ! 
The Muse her own indignant spirit 
Will yet speak out ; — and men shall hear it. 

Yes ; — while, at Concord, there 's a stone 
That she can strike her fire from still ; 

While there 's a shaft at Lexington, 
Or half a one on Bunker's Hill,* 

There shall she stand and strike her lyre, 

And Truth and Freedom shall stand by her. 

But, should she thence by mobs be driven, 
For purer heights she '11 plume her wing ; — 

Spurning a land of slaves, to heaven 
She '11 soar, where she can safely sing. 

God of our fathers, speed her thither ! 

God of the free, let me go with her ! 
1838. 

* The Ladies are now exerting themselves to make the shaft 
on Bunker's Hill a whole one. Success to them ! 



299 



V. 



THE GAG. 



Ho ! children of the granite hills 

That bristle with the hackmatack, 
And sparkle with the crystal rills 

That hurry toward the Merrimack, 
Dam up those rills ! — for, while they run, 
They all rebuke your Atherton. * 

Dam up those rills ! — they flow so free 

O'er icy slope, o'er beetling crag, 
That soon they '11 all be off at sea, 

Beyond the reach of Charlie's gag ; — 
And when those waters are the sea's, 
They '11 speak and thunder as they please ! 

Then freeze them stiff! — but let there come 
No winds to chain them ; — should they blow, 

They '11 speak of freedom ; — let the dumb 
And breathless frost forbid their flow. 

* I have no feelings of personal hostility towards the Hon. 
Charles G. Atherton. But if, by stifling the prayers of more 
than one million of his fellow men, in order that he may per- 
petuate the slavery of more than two millions, the best friend I 
have on earth shall seek to make his name immortal, I will do 
my best to — help him. 



300 OCCASIONAL. 

Then, all will be so hushed and mum 
You '11 think your Atherton has come. 

Not he ! — " Of all the airts * that blow," 

He dearly loves the soft South-west, 
That tells where rice and cotton grow, 

And man is, like the Patriarchs, blest 
(So say some eloquent divines) 
With God-given slaves f and concubines. 

Let not the winds go thus at large, 
That now o'er all your hills career, — 

Your Sunapee and Kearsarge, — 

Nay, nay, methinks the bounding deer 

That, like the winds, sweep round their hill, 

Should all be gagged, to keep them still. 

And all your big and little brooks, 

That rush down laughing towards the sea, 

Your Lampreys, Squams, and Contoocooks, 
That show a spirit to be free, 

Should learn they 're not to take such airs ; — 

Your mouths are stopped ; — then why not theirs ? 

Plug every spring that dares to play 

At bubble, in its gravel cup, 
Or babble, as it runs away ! — 

Nay, — catch and coop your eagles up ! 

* " Of a' the airts the wind can blaw." — Burns. 
t " Here we see God, dealing in slaves," &c. — Sermon of 
the Rev. T. Clapp. JVeio Orleans. 



THE GAG. 301 

It is not meet that they should fly, 

And scream of freedom, through your sky. 

Ye 've not done yet ! Your very trees, — 
Those sturdy pines, their heads that wag 

In concert with the mountain breeze, — 
Unless they 're silenced by a gag, 

Will whisper, — " We will stand our ground ! 

Our heads are up ! Our hearts are sound ! " 

Yea, Atherton, the upright firs 

O'er thee exult, and taunt thee thus, — 

" Though thou art fallen, no feller stirs 
His foot, or lifts his axe at us. * 

i Hell from beneath, is moved at thee,' 

Since thou hast crouched to Slavery. 

" Thou saidst, ' I will exalt my throne 

Above the stars ; and, in the north 
Will sit upon the mount alone, 

And send my Slavery " Orders " forth ' ! 
Our White Hills spurn thee from their sight ; 
Their blasts shall speed thee in thy flight. 

* " Yea, the fir trees rejoice at thee, and the cedars of Leba- 
non, saying, Since thou art laid down, no feller is come up 
against us. Hell, from beneath, is moved for thee, to meet thee 
at thy coming. — For thou hast said in thy heart, I will ascend 
into heaven, I will exalt myself above the stars of God ; I will 
sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the 
north." — Isaiah, xiv. 8, 9, 13. 



302 OCCASIONAL. 

" Go ! breathe amid the aguish damps 
That gather o'er the Congaree ; — 
Go ! hide thee in the cypress swamps 

That darken o'er the black Santee, — 
And be the moss, above thy head, 
The gloomy drapery of thy bed ! 

" The moss, that creeps from bough to bough, 
And hangs in many a dull festoon ; — 

There, peeping through thy curtain, thou 

Mayest catch some ' glimpses of the moon ' ; 

Or, better, twist of it a string, 

Noose in thy neck, repent, and — swing ! " * 

Sons of the granite hills, your birds, 

Your winds, your waters, and your trees, 

Of faith and freedom speak, in words 
That should be felt in times like these ; 

Their voice comes to you from the sky ! 

In them, God speaks of Liberty. 

Sons of the granite hills, awake ! 

Ye 're on a mighty stream afloat, 
With all your liberties at stake ; — 

A faithless pilot 's on your boat ! 
And, while ye 've lain asleep, ye 're snagg ed ! 
Nor can ye cry for help, — ye 're gagged ! 
1839. 

* These fir trees that grow upon the granite hills, though they 
seem to have some heart, can certainly have no howels, or only 
granite ones, else they could never give such suicidal counsel. 



303 



VI. 

THE CHAIN. 

Is it his daily toil that wrings 

From the slave's bosom that deep sigh ? 
Is it his niggard fare that brings 

The tear into his down-cast eye ? 

O no ; by toil and humble fare 

Earth's sons their health and vigor gain ; 
It is because the slave must wear 
His chain. 

Is it the sweat from every pore 

That starts, and glistens in the sun, 

As, the young cotton bending o'er, 
His naked back it shines upon ? 

Is it the drops that, from his breast 

Into the thirsty furrow fall, 
That scald his soul, deny him rest, 

And turn his cup of life to gall ? 

No ; — for, that man with sweating brow 

Shall eat his bread, doth God ordain ; 
This the slave's spirit doth not bow ; 
It is his chain. 



304 OCCASIONAL. 

Is it, that scorching sands and skies 

Upon his velvet skin have set 
A hue, admired in beauty's eyes, 

In Genoa's silks, and polished jet ? 

No ; for this color was his pride, 

When roaming o'er his native plain ; 
Even here, his hue can he abide, 
But not his chain. 

Nor is it, that his back and limbs 
Are scored with many a gory gash, 

That his heart bleeds, and his brain swims, 
And the Man dies beneath the lash. 

For Baal's priests, on Carmel's slope, 

Themselves with knives and lancets scored, 

Till the blood spirted, — in the hope 

The god would hear, whom they adored ; — 

And Christian flagellants their backs 
All naked to the scourge have given ; 

And martyrs to their stakes and racks 

Have gone, of choice, in hope of heaven ; — 

For here there was an inward will ! 

Here spake the spirit, upward tending ; 
And o'er Faith's cloud-girt altar, still, 

Hope hung her rainbow, heaven-ward bending. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR. 305 

But will and hope hath not the slave, 

His bleeding spirit to sustain : — 
No, — he must drag on, to the grave, 

His chain. 
1839. 



VII. 

THE FUGITIVE SLAVE'S APOSTROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR. 

Star of the North! though night winds drift 

The fleecy drapery of the sky 
Between thy lamp and me, I lift, 

Yea, lift with hope, my sleepless eye 
To the blue heights wherein thou dwellest, 
And of a land of freedom tellest. 

Star of the North ! while blazing day 
Pours round me its full tide of light, 

And hides thy pale but faithful ray, 
I, too, lie hid, and long for night : 

For night ; — I dare not walk at noon, 

Nor dare 1 trust the faithless moon, — 

Nor faithless man, whose burning lust 
For gold hath riveted my chain ; 

Nor other leader can I trust, 

But thee, of even the starry train ; 

For, all the host around thee burning, 

Like faithless man, keep turning, turning. 
20 



306 OCCASIONAL. 

I may not follow where they go : 
Star of the North, I look to thee 

While on I press ; for well I know 

Thy light and truth shall set me free ; — 

Thy light, that no poor slave deceiveth ; 

Thy truth, that all my soul believeth. 

They of the East beheld the star 

That over Bethlehem's manger glowed ; 

With joy they hailed it from afar, 

And followed where it marked the road, 

Till, where its rays directly fell, 

They found the Hope of Israel. 

Wise were the men who followed thus 
The star that sets man free from sin ! 

Star of the North ! thou art to us, — 
Who 're slaves because we wear a skin 

Dark as is night's protecting wing, — 

Thou art to us a holy thing. 

And we are wise to follow thee ! 

I trust thy steady light alone : 
Star of the North ! thou seem'st to me 

To burn before the Almighty's throne, 
To guide me, through these forests dim 
And vast, to liberty and Him. 

Thy beam is on the glassy breast 
Of the still spring, upon whose brink 

I lay my weary limbs to rest, 

And bow my parching lips to drink. 



APOSTROPHE TO THE NORTH STAR. 307 

Guide of the friendless negro's way, 
I bless thee for this quiet ray ! 

In the dark top of southern pines 
I nestled, when the driver's horn 

Called to the field, in lengthening lines, 
My fellows at the break of morn. 

And there I lay, till thy sweet face 

Looked in upon " my hiding-place." 

The tangled cane-brake, — where I crept 
For shelter from the heat of noon, 

And where, while others toiled, I slept 
Till wakened by the rising moon, — 

As its stalks felt the night wind free, 

Gave me to catch a glimpse of thee. 

Star of the North ! in bright array 
The constellations round thee sweep, 

Each holding on its nightly way, 
Rising, or sinking in the deep, 

And, as it hangs in mid heaven naming, 

The homage of some nation claiming. 

This nation to the Eagle * cowers ; 

Fit ensign ! she 's a bird of spoil ; — 
Like worships like ! for each devours 

The earnings of another's toil. 

* The constellations, Aquila, Leo, and Virgo, are here meant, 
by the astronomical fugitive. 



308 OCCASIONAL. 

I 've felt her talons and her beak, 
And now the gentler Lion seek. 

The Lion, at the Virgin's feet 

Crouches, and lays his mighty paw 

Into her lap ! — an emblem meet 

Of England's Queen and English law : 

Queen, that hath made her Islands free ! 

Law, that holds out its shield to me ! 

Star of the North ! upon that shield 
Thou shinest ! — O, for ever shine ! 

The negro, from the cotton-field, 
Shall then beneath its orb recline, 

And feed the Lion couched before it, 

Nor heed the Eagle screaming o'er it ! 



VIII. 

ECONOMY OF SLAVERY. 

" One mouth and one back to two hands," is the law 

That the hand of his Maker has stamped upon man ; 
But Slavery lays on God's image her paw, 

And fixes him out on a different plan ; — 
Two mouths and two backs to two hands she creates ; 

And the consequence is, as she might have expected ; 
Let the hands do their best, upon all her estates, 

The mouths go half fed, and the backs half protected. 

1840. 



IX. 

GLEANINGS 



311 



GLEANINGS. 
I. 

TO A FRIEND. 

Friend of my dark and solitary hour, 

When spectres walk abroad, and ghosts have power, 

To thee I look to dissipate the gloom, 

And banish sheeted corpses from my room. 

Thou 'rt not thyself a corpse, though, past all doubt, 

Thou hast been a dead body, and " laid out." 

Nor art thou quite a ghost, though, sooth to say, 

Much like a ghost thou vanishest away, 

And, like the ghost in Shakspeare's tragic tale, 

(That of the royal Dane,) thou 'rt " very pale." 

Life of my nights, thy cheering smile impart ! 
Light of my lone and melancholy heart, 
Come stand beside me, and, with silent gaze, 
O'erlook the line I 'm weaving in thy praise. 
But, should my numbers, like thyself, decline, 
Start not indignant from thy silver shrine, 
Such panegyric though incensed to hear, 
Nor, like the Cynthian,* touch my tingling ear. 

* "Cynthius aurem vellit." — -Virg. Eel. vi. I, 3. 



312 OCCASIONAL. 

Yea, — though I feel thy warm breath in my face, 
As Daphne felt the Delphian's * in the chase, 
Let not my finger press, thy polished form, 
Lest, like Pygmalion, I should find thee warm. 

Thou art not cold as marble, though thou 'rt fair 
As smoothest alabaster statues are ; 
Thou 'rt like the lamp that brightens wisdom's page ; 
Thou 'rt like a glass to the dim eye of age ; 
Thou 'rt like the lantern Hero held, of yore, 
On Sestos's tower, to light Leander o'er. 
Thou art the friend of Beauty and of Wit ; 
Both beam the brighter when with thee they sit. 
Thou giv'st to Beauty's cheek a softer hue, 
Sprinklest on Beauty's lip a fresher dew, 
Giv'st her with warmer eloquence to sigh, 
And wing love's shafts more heated from her eye. 

Still, pure thyself, as Nova Zembla's snows, 
Thy blood bounds not, — it regularly flows. 
Thou dost not feel, nor wake, impure desire ; — 
For, though thou standest with thy soul on fire, 
Beside my couch, in all thy glowing charms, 
I sleep, nor dream I clasp thee in my arms. 

Thy faithfulness, my friend, oft hast thou shown ; 
Thou hast stood by me oft, — and stood alone ; 
And when the world has frowned, thou wouldst beguile 
My hours of sadness with thy cheerful smile. 

* Ovid. Met., I. 530 et seq. 



TO A FRIEND. 313 

Yet well I know, — forgive the painful thought ! — 

With all thy faithfulness, thou hast been bought. 

Yes, friend, thou hast been venal, and hast known 

The time, when, just as freely as my own 

Thou mightest, for a trifle, have been led 

To grace the veriest stranger's board or bed. 

Yet will I trust thee now, — while thou hast life ; — 

I '11 trust thee with my money, or my wife, 

Not doubting, for a moment, that thou 'It be 

As true to them as thou art true to me. 

While thus I praise thee, I do not pretend 
That though a faithful, thou 'rt a faultless friend. 
Excuse me, then, — I do not love to blame, — 
When, for thy sake, thy faults I briefly name. 

Though often present when debates wax warm, 
On Slavery, or the Temperance reform, 
I ne'er have known thee lift thy voice or hand, 
The car of Reformation through the land 
Onward to roll. — Thou knowest well that I 
Drink nothing but cold water, when I 'm dry ; — 
It is my daily bath, my daily drink ; — 
What, then, with all thy virtues, must I think, 
When, as thou seest my goblet filling up, 
Or the pure crystal flowing from the cup, 
In cool refreshment, o'er my parching lip, 
I never can persuade thee e'en to sip ? — 
Nay, — when thou bear'st it with so ill a grace, 
If but a drop I sprinkle in thy face ? 



314 OCCASIONAL. 

Thou know'st this puts thee out. And then, once move, 

Tobacco juice, on carpet, hearth, or floor, 

I can't endure ; and yet I know thou vievvest 

Such things unmoved. I say not that thou chewest 

The Indian weed ; but I 'm in error far, 

If I 've not seen thee lighting a cigar ; — 

Fie ! Fie ! my friend, eschew the nauseous stuff! 

I hate thy smoking ! I detest thy snuff! 

True, should my censures a retort provoke, 
Thou may st reply that Spanish ladies smoke ; 
And that e'en editors are pleased enough 
Sometimes to take, as oft they give, a puff. 

Ah well, "with all thy faults," — as Cowper says, — 
" I love thee still," and still I sing thy praise : 
These few bad habits I o'erlook in thee ; — 
For who, on earth, from every fault is free ? 

Still, my fair friend, the poisonous gall that drips 
On virtue's robe, from Scandal's viper lips, 
Hath fallen on thee. When innocence and youth 
Her victims are, she seems to tell the truth, 
While yet she lies. But when, with deadly fangs, 
She strikes at thee, and on thy mantel hangs, 
She seems resolved a different game to try ; 
She tells the truth, but seems to tell a lie, 
And calls thee, — thy tried character to stain, — 
" The wicked fiction of some monster's brain ! " 



TO A FKIEND. 315 

" Wicked !" — let all such slanderers be told 

Thy maker cast thee in an upright mould ; * 

And, though thou mayst be swayed, 't is ne'er to ill, 

But thou maintainest thine uprightness still. 

" Wicked! " — while all thine hours, as they proceed,' 

See thee engaged in some illustrious deed ! 

See thee, thyself and all thou hast, to spend, 

Like holy Paul, to benefit thy friend ; 

And, by the couch where wakeful woe appears, 

See thee dissolve, like Niobe, in tears ! 

E'en now, as, gazing on thy slender frame, 
That, like my own, still feeds the vital flame, 
I strive to catch thy beauty's modest ray, 
Methinks I see thee sink, in slow decay, 
Beneath the flame that 's kindled by my breath, 
And preys upon thy heart-strings till thy death. 
Yet, in thy melting mood, thy heart is light, 
Thy smile is cheerful, and thy visage bright. 
And, in thy pallid form, I see displayed 
The Cyprian goddess and the martial maid ; 
For thou didst spring, like Venus, from the main, 
And, like Minerva, from a thunderer's brain. 

What though thou art a " fiction " ? Still, forsooth, 
Fiction may throw as fair a light as truth. 
But, thou 'rt a "wicked fiction"; yet, the while, 
No crime is thine, and thou 'rt unknown to guile. 

* " For, O, thy soul in holy mould was cast." — Campbell. 



316 OCCASIONAL. 

In fiery trials, I have seen thee stand 
Firm, and more pure than e'en thy maker's hand ; 
And deeds of darkness, crimsoned o'er with shame, 
Shrink from thine eye as from devouring flame. 

True at thy post, I 've ever seen thee stay, 
Yet, truant-like, I 've seen thee run away ; 
And, though that, want of firmness I deplore, 
Wert thou less wicked thou wouldst run still more ; 
Wert thou more wicked, and less modest too, 
The meed of greater virtue were thy due. 
Wert thou less wicked, thou wouldst less dispense 
The beams of beauty and benevolence. 
Light of my gloomy hours, thy name I bless 
The more, the greater is thy wickedness. 



317 



II. 

PETITION FROM A LAZARETTO. 

Lines written in the Lazaretto at Malta, in May, 1836, in the name of the 
Subscriber, — a Captain in His Britannic Majesty's service, who had been 
stationed at Corfu, — and sent by him to Sir Frederick Hankey, in behalf 
of the party described, and for the object stated in the lines themselves. 

Sir, 

From the Lazaretto's lofty cells, 
Where Freedom comes not, but where Hunger dwells, 
Where floors, walls, ceilings, — all of Malta stone, — 
Have long replied to many a prisoner's moan ; 
Where, while we wake, we 're stung by many a gnat, 
And, while we sleep, are robbed by many a rat, — 

Your servant, who, you know, is not a stoic 
(Though here one ought to be), begs your permission, 

In a few lines, and somewhat less heroic 
Than are these first, to send you his petition ; — 
Which humbly showeth ; — 

Here are four 
As hearty men as walk the planet, 

Who 're running up a frightful score, 
('T is now five days since we began it,) 
For baked, stewed, roasted, with McAlif ; * 

* McAlif, the obliging host in the city of Valetta, who 
spread our table in the Lazaretto. 



318 OCCASIONAL. 

And, as we 're earning nothing here, 

But eating beef and drinking beer, — 
We speak not now of eau de vie, 
And rum, and lemon ratafia,* — 

We really begin to fear 

That we shall all be after meeting, 
On our way homeward, a " bum-bailiff," 

With his tipped staff, and civil " greeting." 

Now, should our commissary set a 
Bull-dog like this upon our track, 

Who, on our entering Valetta, • 

Should seize, and hold, or drag us back ; 
Or, on such " livery of seisin," 
Should take us to a debtor's prison, 
Our case were obviously still harder ; — 
For there Mc Alif keeps no larder ; — 
And, what is worse, when once in there, 
We fear, the whole corps sanitaire 
Might deem it somewhat too erratic, 
Even in ten days to give us pratique. 

Fear ye the plague from such as we ? 
Consider, pray, from whence we 've come ; — 
Some from Corfu, from Patras some, 

And all have crossed the Ionian sea. 
Some have been rambling, e'er so long, 
Among the hills so famed in song, 

* The author owes it to himself, not to sav one or two others 
of the party, to declare that these three lines had reference to 
only one of the party, who in the armies of" the jolly god " was 
a veteran, that had seen hard service. 



PETITION FROM A LAZARETTO. 319 

('T is there we must have caught the power 

To string our lyre thus, and to sound it.) 
On Helicon we met a shower, 

With a young Iris dancing round it. 
Upon Cythseron's shady side 

We saw Hygeia coolly seated ; 
Who, learning that we 'd come in honest quest of her, 
(Not like Actseon, for a glimpse by stealth,) 
Most promptly gave us a clean bill of health, 
And to our question courteously replied, 

And her assurance o'er and o'er repeated, 
That we should find no plague, now, to the West of 
her; 
" Except, " — she added in an under tone, — 
" It be the plague at Malta or Ancone," 
By which we understood the nymph to mean 
The plague of there performing quarantine. 

Since that, we 've felt the breezes pass us 
Fresh from the white head of Parnassus, 
And, later still, the Adriatic 
Has breathed upon us ; — and his breath, 
If it e'er bears the darts of Death, 
Brings them in colds and pains rheumatic ; 
Or down the gulf a demon sails, 
With white lips and blue finger-nails, 
By mortals sometimes called an ague ; — 
These imps Adria sends to plague you ; — 
But, as to any other kind of pest, 
Were 't not a lazar-lwuse, it were a jest. 



320 OCCASIONAL. 

Fear ye the plague from such as we ? 

O, send the leech, and let him see. 

We think, if any thing can banish 

The fear of pest from us, poor sinners, 
'T would be, when we are at our dinners, 

To see how soon those dinners vanish. 

Send, then, the leech, — let him examine ; 
We think, when he shall make report, 
'Twill be agreed " by the whole court," — 

No fear of plague, but fear of famine. 

O, had we but a tongue to plead our cause ! 
We had one once, — it is not what it was, — 
There was a time when that delicious tongue, 
Sweeter than Nestor's, with its fellows hung, 
And in the smoke of Adrianople swung. 
In Smyrna next it met our roving eye, 
And the bait took ; — what could we do but buy ? 
O, it was sweeter than " the summer south," 
Nor could we see it but with watering mouth ; 
In papers firm we had the purchase rolled, 
And then we paid for 't in the Sultan's gold. 
Pleased, we looked forward to the Lazaret, 

Where, if McAlif could not meet our wishes, 
We knew that there was one thing we could get, 

And that one thing the very prince of dishes ! 

This morning, as a miser to his hoard 
Goes, to be sure that every thing is right, 

We sought the basket where our tongue was stored, 
And where we left it, safely wrapped, last night. — 



PETITION FROM A LAZARETTO. 321 

The truth flashed forth ; — we can no longer mask it ; — 
Some foe, — and doubtless thereby hangs a tail, — 
Had, " while men slept," crept softly to the basket, 

(How, when we all looked in, we all looked pale \) 
And left no more of all our cherished treasure, 
Than what consisted with the pirate's pleasure ! 
We had a tongue, which is not all a tongue ; 
Ah, little thought we, it so soon would fail us ! 

But yesterday, it might have stood among 
The dishes dressed Jo: Heliogabalus ; 
Now, none so hungry as that tongue to set to, 
Of all the starvelings of a Lazaretto. 

We, then, your servant, do implore, 
Not for ourself, but all the four 
Who help this Lazaretto farce on ; — 
Yes, — 't is the four we 're pleading for, 
To wit, three English men of war 
And one poor vagrant Yankee parson ; — 
We say, we do beseech your grace, 
Sir Frederick, in behalf of these, 
Let us all quit this hungry place, 

And get our dinner when and where we please. 
Your deed shall live ; in verse and prose we '11 tell it ! 
And, as in duty bound, we '11 ever thank ye ; 
Your humble servant, 

Robert Napier Kellett. 
The Honorable Secretary Hankey. 



21 



322 



III. 

FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS E. L. B 

Is there, in all the skies, a star 

That envies not the Queen of Heaven, 

As nightly, on her silver car, 

Through their retiring ranks she 's driven 

There is : — for, though a countless train, 
That sparkled ere she rose to view, 

Grow pale with envy when the plain 
Is sprinkled with her light and dew, 

One stands unmoved, and sees her roll, 
Nor will retire, nor yet attend her ; 

'T is she whose lamp illumes the pole 
With modest but eternal splendor. 

Springs there a plant or flower to light, 
Whose bosom, all unknown to guile, 

Is bathed in the pure tears of Night, 

And dried in Morning's cheerful smile, — 

Whether that plant or blossom throws 
Its fragrance over hill or dale, — 

That envies not to see the Rose 

Unfold her leaves and woo the gale, 



FOR AN ALBUM. 323 

When on her green and graceful stem 
She hangs, her native bush adorning, 

Sparkling with many a dewy gem, 

And blushing with the beams of morning ? 

Yes, there is one, and one alone ; — 

Mimosa, pride of vegetation, 
Boasts higher honors of her own ; 

Hers is the honor of sensation. 



And is there one whose peace the glare 

Of others' beauty never mars ? 
One of the blooming, sparkling fair, 

Whose emblems are the flowers and stars ? 

Yes : — there is one ; 't is she who shrinks 

From even admiration's gaze, 
Who courts the shade, who feels, who thinks, 

And spreads her hands to heaven in praise ; 

'Tis she whose spirit dwells on high, 
Even in the thoughtful nights of youth ; 

'T is she whose mild and constant eye 
Beams with the faithful light of truth. 

Heaven's brilliant lights, Earth's blooming flowers,- 
These shall all fade, and those shall fall : — 

The moral beauty that is ours 

Shall flourish o'er the tomb of all. 

1824. 



324 



IV. 

FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS CAROLINE C . 

' : Grace is deceitful, and beauty vain." — Solomon. 

O, say not, wisest of all the kings 

That have risen on Israel's throne to reign, 

Say not, as one of your wisest things, 
That grace is false, and beauty vain. 

Your harem beauties resign ! resign 

Their lascivious dance, their voluptuous song ! 

To your garden come forth, among things divine, 
And own you do grace and beauty wrong. 

Is beauty vain because it will fade ? 

Then are earth's green robe and heaven's light vain ; 
For this shall be lost in evening's shade, 

And that in winter's sleety rain. 

But earth's green mantle, pranked with flowers, 
Is the couch where life with joy reposes ; 

And heaven gives down, with its light and showers, 
To regale them, fruits, — to deck them, roses. 

And, while opening flowers in such beauty spread, 
And ripening fruits so gracefully swing, 

Say not, O King, as you just now said, 
That beauty or grace is a worthless thing. 



FOR AN ALBUM. 325 

This willow's limbs, as they bend in the breeze, 
The dimpled face of the pool to kiss, — 

Who, that has eyes and a heart, but sees 
That there is beauty and grace in this ! 

And do not these boughs all whisper of Him, 

Whose smile is the light that in green arrays them ; 

Who sitteth, in peace, on the wave they skim, 

And whose breath is the gentle wind that sways 
them ? 

And are not the beauty and grace of youth, 
Like those of this willow, the work of love ? 

Do they not come, like the voice of truth, 

That is heard all around us here, from above ? 

Then say not, wisest of all the kings 

That have risen on Israel's throne to reign, 

Say not, as one of your wisest things, 
That grace is false, and beauty vain. 

1827. 



V. 

FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS OCTAVIA W . 

Octavia ! what the eighth ! — If bounteous Heaven 
Hath made eight such, where are the other seven ? 



1835. 



326 
VI. 

FOR THE ALBUM OF MISS MARY G. M . 

Mary, never on these pages 
Let there be a single line, 
Be it beau's, or bard's, or sage's, 
That shall aught unholy speak, 
Or blot the paper's virgin cheek, 
Or bring a blush o'er thine. 

Let no hand, — or friend's or lover's, — 

Ever, from wit's sparkling mine 
Call, and leave between these covers, 
Any gem, however bright, 
That in jealous Virtue's sight 
Shall be unfit for thine. 

With the pearls from shallow waters, 

Such as brainless flatterers twine 
Round the brow of Folly's daughters, 
Let the pedlers of those pearls 
Grace the albums of their girls, 
But never trick out thine. 

Gems of truth and genius, rather, 

That, from heights or depths divine, 
Wisdom's sons and daughters gather, — 
Gems of thought and holy feeling, 
To thyself thyself revealing, — 
Shall fill this book of thine. 



SUNDAY MORNING. 327 

Flowers, by kindred spirits painted, 

Taste shall here so intertwine, 
That thy brother's spirit sainted, — 
Could the finished volume lie 
Open to his watchful eye, — 
Would give it back to thine. 

Mary, now thy cheek is blowing ; 
But its bloom wilt thou resign, 
With the locks that now are flowing 
Down the shoulders of thy youth ; 
But thy purity and truth 
O keep for ever ! — Thine, 
1840. J. P. 



VII. 

SUNDAY MORNING AT CAMBRIDGE. 

It had rained in the night ; but the morning's birth 

Was as calm and still as even ; 
The heralds of day were awake in their mirth, 
For the sun in his glory was coming to earth, 

And the mists had gone to heaven. 
The winds were asleep ; so soft was the weather, 

Since the storm had spent its might, 
Not an angel of morning had lifted a feather, 
Or whispered a word for hours together, 

Or breathed a " Farewell ! V to night. 



328 OCCASIOxVAL. 

The fields were green, 
And the world was clean ; 
The young smokes curled in air, 
And the clear-toned bell 
Swung merrily to tell 
The students' hour of prayer. 
The elm's yellow leaf, that the frost had dyed, 
Caught the yellower sun as he came in pride 
Down the church's spire and the chapel's side. 

As learning's pale and dark- robed throng 
Moved on to morning's prayer and song, 
One of the train, who walked alone, 
One, to the rest but little known, 
Whose way of worship was his own, 
Moved tardily, till by degrees 
He stopped among the glittering trees 
While the rest in the chapel assembled. 
For the diamond drops of the mist hung there, 
All meltingly strung on the stiff, straight hair, 
Of the shrubbery larch. The sun's flash came 
And wrapped the bush all at once in flame ; 
Yet its glorious locks never trembled. 
Not Horeb's bush, to Moses' eye, 
Wa fuller of the deity. 
The worshipper gazed : — 't was a glorious sight ! 
As the pageant blazed with its rainbow light, 

He was bowing his heart adoringly. 
From the bush, that in silence and purity burned, 
To commune with the Spirit that filled it he learned, 
And from earth I saw that his eyes were turned, 
And lifted to heaven imploringly. 

Oct. 2d, 1818. 



329 



VIII. 

MORNING PRAYER FOR A CHILD. 

O God ! I thank thee, that the night 
In peace and rest hath passed away, 

And that I see in this fair light 

My Father's smile, that makes it day. 

Be thou my guide, and let me live 
As under thine all-seeing eye ; 

Supply my wants, my sins forgive, 
And" make me happy when I die. 



IX. 

EVENING PRAYER FOR A CHILD. 

Another day its' course hath run, 

And still, O God, thy child is blessed ; 

For thou hast been by day my sun, 
And thou wilt be by night my rest. 

Sweet sleep descends, my eyes to close ; 

And now, while all the world is still, 
I give my body to repose, 

My spirit to my Father's will. 



330 



X. 

JERUSALEM. 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, 

How glad should I have been, 
Could I, in my lone wanderings, 

Thine aged walls have seen ! — 
Could I have gazed upon the dome, 

Above thy towers that swells, 
And heard, as evening's sun went down, 

Thy parting camels' bells : — 

Could I have stood on Olivet, 

Where once the Saviour trod, 
And, from its height, looked down upon 

The city of our God ! 
For is it not, Almighty God, 

Thy holy city still, — 
Though there thy prophets walk no more, 

That crowns Moriah's hill ? 

Thy prophets walk no more, indeed, 

The streets of Salem now, 
Nor are their voices lifted up 

On Zion's saddened brow ; 
Nor are their garnished sepulchres 

With pious sorrow kept, 



JERUSALEM. 2'31 

Where once the same Jerusalem, 
That killed them, came and wept. 

But still the seed of Abraham 

With joy upon it look, 
And lay their ashes at its feet, 

That Kedron's feeble brook 
Still washes, as its waters creep 

Along their rocky bed, 
And Israel's God is worshipped yet 

Where Zion lifts her head. 

Yes ; — every morning, as the day 

Breaks over Olivet, 
The holy name of Allah comes 

From every minaret ; 
At every eve the mellow call 

Floats on the quiet air, 
" Lo, God is God ! Before him come, 

Before him come, for prayer ! " 

I know, when at that solemn call 

The city holds her breath, 
That Omar's mosque hears not the name 

Of Him of Nazareth ; 
But Abraham's God is worshipped there 

Alike by age and youth, 
And worshipped, ■ — hopeth charity, — 

" In spirit and in truth." 

Yea, from that day when Salem knelt 
And bent her queenly neck 



332 OCCASIONAL. 

To him who was, at once, her Priest 

And King, — Melchisedek, 
To this, when Egypt's Abraham * 

The sceptre and the sword 
Shakes o'er her head, her holy men 

Have bowed before the Lord. 

Jerusalem, I would have seen 

Thy precipices steep, 
The trees of palm that overhang 

Thy gorges dark and deep, 
The goats that cling along thy cliffs, 

And browse upon thy rocks, 
Beneath whose shade lie down, alike, 

Thy shepherds and their flocks. 

I would have mused, while Night hung out 

Her silver lamp so pale, 
Beneath those ancient olive trees 

That grow in Kedron's vale, 
Whose foliage from the pilgrim hides 

The city's wall sublime, 
Whose twisted arms and gnarled trunks 

Defy the sithe of Time. 

The Garden of Gethsemane 

Those aged olive trees 
Are shading yet, and in their shade 

I would have sought the breeze, 

* This name, now generally written Ibrahim, is the same as 
that, of " the father of the faithful," u.e contemporary of Melchis- 
edek. 



JERUSALEM. 333 

That, like an angel, bathed the brow, 

And bore to heaven the prayer, 
Of Jesus, when in agony, 

He sought the Father there. 

I would have gone to Calvary, 

And, where the Marys stood 
Bewailing loud the Crucified, 

As near him as they could, 
I would have stood, till Night o'er earth 

Her heavy pall had thrown, 
And thought upon my Saviour's cross, 

And learned to bear my own. 

Jerusalem, Jerusalem, 

Thy cross thou bearest now ! 
An iron yoke is on thy neck, 

And blood is on thy brow ; 
Thy golden crown, the crown of truth, 

Thou didst reject as dross, 
And now thy cross is on thee laid, 

The Crescent is thy cross ! 

It was not mine, nor will it be, 

To see the bloody rod 
That scourgeth thee, and long hath scourged, 

Thou city of our God ! 
But round thy hill the spirits throng 

Of all thy murdered seers, 
And voices that went up from it 

Are ringing in my ears, — 



334 OCCASIONAL. 

Went up that clay, when darkness fell 

From all thy firmament, 
And shrouded thee at noon ; and when 

Thy temple's vail was rent, 
And graves of holy men, that touched 

Thy feet, gave up their dead : — 
Jerusalem, thy prayer is heard, 

His blood is on thy head! 

1840. 



THE END. 



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